


Throwing Stones at the Sky

by jacyevans



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And various others from Seasons 1-4, Angst, Azazel - Freeform, Bottom Sam, Competent Hunter Jessica Moore, Dirty Talk, F/M, Gabriel - Freeform, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Madison - Freeform, Minor Character(s), Misuse of African Dream Root, Multi, POV Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, more winchester feels than you could shake a stick at, you guys have none chill about each other; the lack of it is visible from space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 08:00:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16445942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacyevans/pseuds/jacyevans
Summary: After wrangling hold of Lucifer and jumping into the cage, Sam wakes up in a hospital bed, three years in the past, in a universe where Jess survived the fire and joined him and Dean on the road. Sam must navigate this unknown landscape and figure out if this is real or in his head while trying to stop the chain of events that will eventually kickstart the apocalypse. All while hiding the truth from Dean and Jess and getting a handle on feelings for his brother that he was able to deny once but doesn't think he has the strength to ignore again.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Wincest Big Bang 2018. Title and lyrics from "The Stable Song" by Gregory Alan Isakov.
> 
> Art by sandy79 can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16447871).
> 
> Please note, I do not consent to having this fic or any of my works posted on Wattpad or Goodreads.

[ ](http://imgbox.com/uJzTUVFl)

 

 

_i threw stones at the stars, but the whole sky fell_

 

The first thing Sam is aware of is pain.

The sort of pain that comes with being thrown head first into a wall, everything aching and bruised. Sam groans, curling in on himself, hissing when the movement pulls on sore muscles and bruised ribs. He stares at his hands, and they're covered in blood.

Well, that would explain the disorientation. Funny, he doesn't remember Lucifer tearing into him. He doesn't remember a damn thing after jumping into the Pit.

"Whoa, easy tiger," says a voice, and Sam cracks open his eyes as Dean places a firm hand on his shoulder, holding him in place.

"Dean?" Sam murmurs, and the name sounds muddled and wrong because no, Dean shouldn't be here, Dean can't be in the Cage, _what the fuck did his brother do?_

"Is he awake?" someone asks in the background. Sam stiffens; of course, he didn't fall alone - Michael was there, too. This is all a trick, Lucifer getting into his head. Sam struggles to open his eyes enough to see the person standing in the shadows.

Dean snaps, "Barely," before turning his attention back to Sam, face pale and streaked with blood.

Sam's breath catches as another person comes into view. Her hair is shorter than he remembers, face pale and eyebrows drawn down, but he would still know her anywhere. This has to be a dream or a torture-induced hallucination. Lucifer appeared to him this way before, after all.

"Jess," Sam whispers, just before he passes out.

\--

The next time Sam opens his eyes, he's on his back staring at a white ceiling. A steady beeping sound pulses with the ache in his head, and he follows the needle in the back of his hand to a bag of blood hanging from an IV pole.

Sam blinks to clear his vision and frowns. He sits up, groaning as the movement pulls at his side. Bandages bunch under the paper thin hospital gown, hiding a line of stitches that runs half the length of his torso.

"Hey.”

Sam snaps his head around so fast, the room spins. He closes his eyes to get his bearings and when he opens them again, Jess is at his side. Now that she's sitting closer, he sees the scarring along the left side of her neck, creeping out from behind hair that barely brushes the tops of her shoulders.

His Jess never wore her hair so short, never would have dreamed of it, and he swallows past the lump in his throat; the devil could be a creative son of a bitch.

"Don't move. You pull out that IV again and Dean will tie you to the bed himself."

"Again?" Sam mutters, head muddled and fuzzy in a haze only the really good prescription drugs could produce. Or Lucifer’s driven him to insanity already. Dean lasted forty years on the rack, and Sam couldn’t even last a day.

Sounds about right.

Jess bites her lip. "You were delirious. Kept trying to fight the nurses off as soon as they got anywhere near you with a needle."

"I don't remember," Sam says quietly. "I don't remember anything." 

Jess stiffens, eyes widening before she catches herself and buries the emotion away.

"That poltergeist really scrambled your brains, huh, Sammy?" Dean says from the doorway, and Jess whips her head around as he closes the door. He holds up the two cups of coffee in his hands. "Provisions," he says as if that weren't obvious, worried and wary as he hands one off to Jess. She gives him a tight smile in return.

"Poltergeist?" Sam croaks, pushing himself up again, slower this time. A crushing ache lances up his side. He falls back to the bed with a groan, throws his hand over his eyes, and lets the drugs drag him back under.

\--

Dean and Jess are bickering on the other side of the room when Sam finally opens his eyes again. Dean stands tense and straight, attempting to tower over Jess. She's having none of it, though, and meets him eye to eye, gesturing wildly with every word. 

Sam doesn't have the brainpower at the moment to even contemplate their problem. He grumbles, "If you're going to argue, go outside." The two of them abruptly stop, turning towards him. 

He tries to get up on his own - again, because he never learns - and falls back to the bed, clutching at his head, so dizzy he thinks he might be sick. Dean is at his side in a second, one hand at the back of his neck while Sam swallows back bile. He waits until he's sure he isn't going to throw up all over himself before letting Dean ease him back down.

"Well, that sucked out loud," Sam mumbles, but Dean doesn't laugh; he presses the button next to the bed to page the doctor.

"I was okay, you know," Jess says out of the blue, and for a split second, Sam thinks she's talking about the fire, and he can’t breathe. When she says, "The poltergeist," Sam stares, scared and lost and confused. She squeezes his knee over the blankets.

Dean sits in the chair next to the bed, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

"You look exhausted," Jess mutters, and Dean lowers his hand with a sigh.

"You don't exactly look like a movie star either, princess," he grumbles. Jess rolls her eyes.

God, they even _sound_ like Dean and Jess; just how far into his brain did Lucifer sink his fingers?

Sam gestures to the newspaper in Dean's lap. "Can I borrow that?"

"The next case can wait, Sam," Jess argues, but Dean hands it over.

Sam isn't looking for a case, though - he's looking at the date.

 _January 31, 2007_ , he reads in clear black print, and his head swims. It isn't possible. Can't be. His stomach rolls, twisting into knots.

"Sam?" Jess says, voice wobbling, and Dean glances up. He misinterprets Sam's expression and pats his thigh, easily removing the newspaper from his limp fingers.

"Don't worry, Sam, doctor'll be back to see you soon," he says lightly, but Sam can read the tension at his jaw and the corner of his eyes like an open book written in a language only he understands.

Sam nods, the gesture automatic, because he doesn't think he could speak right now if he tried.

When the doctor finally arrives, Dean is pacing, climbing the walls with worry. He stands out of the way while the doctor checks Sam’s vitals, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Jess stands at his side, biting her lip.

The doctor chuckles as he checks Sam's pupils. "You should count yourself lucky to have such a devoted brother and fiancée," he says. Sam chokes. Of course, they would need a cover story to allow Jess into the room. God only knows she wasn't going to wait quietly in a waiting room. 

Sam bites back a sob, covers up the sound with a wince when the doctor prods at his ribs.

The doctor purses his lips, and Sam watches, half worried, half amused as he proceeds to kick Dean and Jess out of the room.

"I need to do a more thorough examination of my patient," he says, ushering them to the door and speaking over Dean's protests. "Protocol and all. Nothing to worry about, I assure you. I'll call you both back as soon as I'm finished."

When the door shuts, the doctor turns back to Sam with a smile. "I thought you might be more inclined to talk without your family here."

Sam offers him a thin smile. "You're right."

"Your brother said you've had some significant memory lapses. Can you tell me what you do remember?"

Sam shakes his head. He remembers saying yes to Lucifer, remembers Stull, the sound of cracking as his fists collided with the bones of Dean's face, of Castiel exploding and the snap of Bobby's neck. He remembers wrangling hold of Lucifer, grabbing Michael, and jumping into the Cage. A dark and endless fall.

Then... he frowns.

"Nothing," Sam says, raising his eyes to the doctor, trying to tamp down the fluttering panic in his chest, "I don't remember anything."

The doctor’s brow furrows, and Sam clarifies, "I mean, I remember who I am and who Dean and Jess are, but the past few weeks, maybe even months, are... murky, at best."

The doctor frowns. "I see," he murmurs, flipping Sam's chart open and making notes. He asks one of the nurses in the hall to ask Dean and Jess to come back.

He tells them that Sam is suffering from retrograde amnesia. That it happens sometimes with concussions, but that Sam's memories could - and should - return with time.

"There is always a chance that he may never recover," he says, soft but brusque. "You'll just have to help him along."

Sam can't help but laugh - like Dean hasn't been helping him along his entire life.

\--

The doctor deems him fit for discharge five days later. Each day, Dean and Jess sit at his bedside from the moment visiting hours begin until long after they end; each day, Sam grows more and more confused, terrified that Lucifer will tear the veil off from over his eyes and reveal all of this as some sort of fever dream.

He’s sent home with a prescription of painkillers and antibiotics and orders to rest for the next few days. Sam protests that he's perfectly capable of walking on his own two feet when a nurse forces him into a wheelchair, but his legs are shaky and weak when he stands. Dean keeps his arm around Sam’s shoulders, easing him into the back seat of the car. Jess props up his back with a pillow, throwing a blanket over his legs before moving to sit in the passenger seat.

They're on the road almost an hour before Jess quietly, hesitantly asks, "So... what do you remember?"

Dean’s hands tighten, bracing the wheel as he glances at Sam through the rearview mirror.

Sam treads like he’s walking on broken glass; isn't sure if what happened here is the same as in his memories, doesn't want to break this fragile power he seems to have over his hallucinations. He tries to think back to what they were up to; after Dad and the demon and _save Sam or kill him_ , everything sort of blurs together.

He suddenly remembers Agent Hendrickson and the shifter in the bank vault. He settles on saying, "Milwaukee," figuring, at best, they were actually there, if for an entirely different reason, and at worst, they'll just think he's confused.

"That was weeks ago," Jess says, turning her head to stare at him with wide eyes.

"No shit," Dean replies, flipping on the turn signal at the sign for the nearest motel.

Dean practically carries Sam into their room, while Jess leads him with a firm grip on his elbow towards the bed furthest from the window. 

Sam falls asleep while she’s untying his shoes. He wakes to Jess sitting against the headboard, legs crossed at the ankles as she flips through the book in her lap. 

He squints his eyes open.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Dean says as he shrugs on his jacket.

“What’s so good about it?” Sam grunts as he shifts under the covers; his ribs feel like they’re on fire. Jess closes the book and hands him a couple of pills and a bottle of water with a straw. He swallows them down.

“Saw a sign for a diner couple of miles back.” Dean flips through his wallet, counting the bills. “I’m gettin’ you a milkshake and you’re drinkin’ the whole damn thing if I have to force it down your throat.”

“Whatever you say. Jerk.”

Dean gives him a relieved smile, like just hearing that one word makes everything okay. Sam wishes that were true. “Bitch.”

Jess rolls her eyes. “You two are ridiculous.”

“You’re just jealous you still don’t have a nickname, princess.”

She flips him off. Dean winks, walking out the door and closing it behind him with a quiet snick. 

Jess places her book on the nightstand, sliding down to lie on her side, facing Sam. She strokes the back of her hand down his cheek. “You okay?”

“Jessica,” he whispers. Having her here, close enough to touch, makes this entire scenario more real, not just some fever dream. Sam drags his fingers lightly down her neck, across the scars, the skin rough and raised against his fingertips that he tries to read like braille. _What happened?_ He asks, dragging a fingertip down near her clavicle. _What the hell happened?_ “I'm dreaming.”

Jess cups his face in her hands. “You're not. I'm right here.”

Sam shakes his head, and the ache in his chest has nothing to do with his broken ribs. "I should have saved you," he chokes out, and Jess presses a finger to his lips. Like they've had this conversation a million times before.

They probably have.

Sam buries his face in her shoulder; her skin smells exactly the same, making his head spin, a mixture of vanilla and Dove soap - her perfume and his body wash. 

"You did save me," she says, dragging her fingers through his hair. "It wasn't your fault. None of this is your fault."

He chokes on the bark of laughter threatening to burst out of his throat. There’s a couple of dead bodies in a convent in Maryland that would say differently. “I’m not so sure about that,” he mutters, and Jess kisses the top of his head.

\--

Sam would say the following weeks are torture if he didn’t know what torture actually feels like.

Dean and Jess treat him with kid gloves; Dean’s face goes pinched every time Sam says he doesn’t remember something, says he’s _going for a walk,_ which in Dean-speak means _finding the nearest empty lot where I can shoot things until I feel better._

Sam stares at himself in the mirror, getting reacquainted with his own body, presses his fingers to spaces where scars should be - his arm from jumping out the window and fleeing Alastair, his back where Jake twisted the knife. 

At night, Sam doesn’t sleep; he researches.

He sneaks outside when Dean finally drops off, exhaustion winning out over his ever-present desire to keep watch. Sam sits just outside of the room with Dad’s journal and his laptop and scowls every time his wireless goes out. He searches for every scrap of information about his life that he can find.

Everything appears the same - the fire that killed his mother, the string of hunts he can remember from when he was a kid. There’s even the obituary he and Bobby wrote for John tucked into the back pages of the journal, the creases so worn, they’re ripping at the seams. Like someone’s read the paper dozens of times.

He shakes his head, moving back to his laptop and the article about the fire.

_**Housing fire shocks Stanford** _

_A fire rocked the student body at Stanford University last night._

_Firefighters were called to the student housing complex at 1 AM last night when a fire broke out in one of the lower apartments._

_One student, Jessica Moore, 21, was rushed to the hospital with severe burns. Her life was saved by the quick thinking of her boyfriend, Sam Winchester, 22, and his brother, Dean, 26. Dean suffered minor burns and several broken ribs, while Sam was treated for shock and smoke inhalation._

_The other residents of the complex escaped with minor injuries and were treated on-scene. The investigation into the cause of the fire started immediately and is believed to be a frayed wire in the ceiling of one of the bedrooms._

_Moore remains in critical condition as of this afternoon. Neither Winchester brother was available for comment._

Sam slams the laptop shut, rubbing a hand over his eyes. Of course, the papers don't tell him _how_ they saved her, how he came to be in this place when he should be spending eternity with Lucifer in a cage of his own making.

He retreats back to the motel room, collapsing into bed. Jess curls into his side, and he wraps an arm around her shoulders, seeking out the heat of her body, holding her as tightly as he dares.

He doesn’t sleep at all.

The next morning, Dean loads them into the Impala. Jess calls shotgun, laughing at the put-out look on Dean’s face.

“You touch my radio, and I’m leaving you on the side of the road.”

“That was one time,” Jess says, and it sounds as joyous and carefree as he remembers, down to the tiny little snort that she would deny to her grave.

He closes his eyes and passes out as soon as the car is on the road.

\--

He dreams that he’s falling, the walls around him black and endless. His heart thrashes against his ribs, and a hand grabs his arm, yanking him upwards.

“No!” Michael screams, grabbing hold of his ankle, and Sam jerks awake.

He glances around; they’ve come to a stop outside of a WaWa; he can see Jess through the windows, flipping through a magazine as she waits at the counter to pay. She curls her hair around her ear, pursing her lips like she’s humming to herself.

Sam startles when something flies through the open window on the driver’s side, slapping against his thigh. 

“Thanks,” Sam says, putting the package of Twizzlers to the side. He isn’t all that hungry.

Dean arches an eyebrow as he gets back into the car, honking the horn. Jess gives him the finger as she crosses the parking lot.

“Jackass,” she says, yanking the door open.

“Blow me.”

“Later if you’re lucky.”

“Baby, you wish you could handle this.” Dean gestures down his body with a roll of his hips.

Jess rolls her eyes, twisting so she can speak to Sam over the back of the seat. “Hey. How are you feeling?”

Sam scrubs a hand over his face as Dean pulls back onto the road. The beginning strains of _Enter Sandman_ rattle through the car. "Tired.”

"I would be tired, too, if I spent all night on the computer."

Sam slowly raises his eyes to meet Dean's in the rearview mirror. "You know about that?”

Dean scoffs. "Course I know."

"You weren't exactly being stealthy, Sam,” Jess says, softly but no less concerned than his brother.

Sam sighs and sits up straighter. His ribs twinge. "I'm just trying to fill in the holes in my memory, that's all." Trying to hold on to this tenuous grip he has on his hallucinations, more like.

"You could ask," Dean says dryly. “Do that talking thing you love so much."

"Shut up," Sam mutters, shoving Dean in the shoulder. "I didn't want to bother you."

Jess sighs, sharing an exasperated look with Dean in a gesture no doubt practiced and mastered over their time together. "You wouldn't be bothering us, Sam. Just ask."

Just ask what? How she survived the fire? How she came to be a hunter? Why they didn't send her home to her family and took her on the road instead?

Sam swallows down the bile that climbs up his throat and rubs his hands over his face. His chest tightens, turning the twinge into a deeper, sharper ache. He clears his throat. “So, what were we doing in Milwaukee anyway?”

Dean grins, recalling the story with great joy and exaggeration until they hit the next motel, waving his hands while Jess scowls, shoving his arm back towards the wheel. With the exception of Jess, everything happened the same, down to their narrow escape wearing SWAT gear.

When Sam sleeps that night, he dreams of Lucifer, of a white suit and his foot snapping Dean’s neck; frost on a windowpane, _We will always end up here; It had to be you, Sam. It always had to be you._

Sam wakes up gasping, cold sweat plastering his shirt to his skin. His left side screams at the sudden movement.

Jess strokes his hair, strokes his shoulder. Dean sits on the edge of the bed and squeezes his arm, says, “You’re okay, little brother.”

Sam chokes on a laugh, so far from okay, he might as well be on a different plane of existence. He lies back down, staring at the ceiling, the touch of their hands the only solid weight keeping him grounded.

“You wanna tell me what you were dreaming about?” Dean asks without letting go of his wrist.

“The Devil,” Sam says, because he can’t think of anything else. 

Dean sighs and rubs a hand over his face. He shoots Jess a discerning glance Sam has no idea how to interpret, but Jess nods, letting go of Sam only to move closer to the wall.

Dean nudges him in the side with his hip and says, “Budge over, Tiny.”

Sam blinks, staring at his brother. Dean shifts from foot to foot. He scowls, rubbing hard at the back of his head. “What? I’m not getting involved in any of this touchy-feely nonsense, so just move the fuck over and go the fuck to sleep.”

“Nice, Dean,” Jess says, shoving him in the shoulder as he lies down. Sam huffs a laugh. His brother’s aversion to getting in touch with his emotions, even though he’s the most emotional person Sam knows - this, at least, is familiar.

Dean huffs. “You’re lucky I don’t hit girls.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jess grins. Their banter, however, is completely foreign, and Sam presses himself further into the mattress, feeling very, very small. Tiny, even.

Jess curls up against his chest, gives him a soft kiss goodnight that warms Sam down to his toes. Dean presses against his back; Sam swears he feels a warm kiss dropped to the back of his neck, but he falls back to sleep before he can properly process the gesture.

This time, he doesn’t dream at all.

\--

From that point on, Dean continues to sleep with Sam, even though he always asks for two queens. Jess doesn’t seem all that annoyed, to Sam’s surprise, just shifts closer to the wall and drags Sam along with her. Their comforting weight keeps him grounded, the smell of Jess’ hair and Dean’s laundry detergent helping him stay rooted in the here and now - wherever the here and now may be.

His ribs still hurt, a raw ache that seeps into his bones and through his chest, but at least his lungs no longer feel like they’re on fire every time he tries to take a deep breath.

They’re in a motel in Madison, Wisconsin when Jess finds the case. She’s flipping through a newspaper, feet resting on the table in their motel room. She isn’t wearing any pants, just one of Sam’s shirts and her underwear, and Sam finds himself hard pressed to pay any attention to the computer in front of his face. 

Dean cuts her a glance out of the corner of her eye, and Jess’ eyes gleam as she rubs her right foot against her left ankle.

He shoves her legs off of the table, and she laughs. “What about this?” she says, planting her feet back on the floor. She spins the newspaper around so Sam can have a look, and Dean leans over his shoulder, planting the palm of his hand on the table. 

“What _about_ this?” Dean asks, and Sam shivers as he breathes on the back of his neck, attempting to shove Dean away. His brother doesn’t budge. 

“Two people in Providence were institutionalized after stabbing someone in the heart. They claim God’s avenging angels told them to do it.” 

Sam stares down at the newspaper, knuckles turning white as he clutches at the edges. He completely forgot about this case, lost amongst a sea of demons and actual archangels bent on destroying the world.

Jess kicks Sam in the shin. “Earth to Sam. Come in Sam.”

His head snaps up, and she laughs. “Where did you go just now?”

 _Hell,_ he thinks to himself before plastering on a smile neither she nor Dean will believe. “Nowhere important.” He places the newspaper down, fingertips stained with black ink. “When do we leave?”

\--

The case goes off without a hitch - that is to say, it’s almost exactly as he remembers.

He and Dean head to Our Lady of the Angels, while Jess speaks with Gloria in the psych ward. 

Sam pauses mid-conversation to stare at the picture of Michael hanging on the wall. The mighty, the warrior, the good son, the older brother who cast Lucifer down to Hell and kickstarted the events that would shape the entirety of Sam’s life.

Sam barely resists the urge to put his fist through the angel’s beautiful, painted face.

Dean elbows him in the side, yanking him out of his thoughts.

“You look like there’s something on your mind,” Father Reynolds says, and Sam laughs a little. Something? Try _everything._

He nods to the painting on the wall. “That’s Michael, isn’t it?” Like he doesn’t already know.

The padre laughs a little, reaching out to touch the edge of the frame. “The archangel Michael with the flaming sword. The slayer of demons. Holy force against evil.”

"An angel of the Lord appeared to them,” Sam says, reciting the verse from memory. Dean stares at him like he’s never seen Sam before in his life. “The glory of the Lord shone down upon them, and they were terrified."

“Luke 2:9,” Father Reynolds says, impressed. “You know your scripture.”

He looks back towards the picture, thinking about fathers and brothers, eternal damnation and eternal glory, and how in his experience, they are one and the same.

“I know enough.”

“You know enough?” Dean says when they’re safely ensconced in the Impala, incredulous and mocking. “When the fuck did you become Joel Osteen?”

“I used to pray every day,” Sam says, looking out the window, at the candles and flowers in their makeshift memorial in front of the church.

When Dean doesn’t answer right away, he turns to find his brother staring at him, eyes wide open, not a word breaking free from his tongue. “The things you learn about a guy,” he finally manages to say. "Why did you stop?"

 _Because Heaven is empty and all of the angels are here._ Sam shrugs. "Got tired of the wrong people listening."

“The wrong people,” Dean repeats, a storm brewing behind his words. The pressure of them pushes against Sam’s chest, holding the air in his lungs.

Sam sighs and rubs a hand down his sternum. Dean follows the motion with his eyes. “I just mean, we've gotta go with what we know, that’s all. What's right there in front of our own two eyes.” 

It’s ironic, then, that he’s still the one to see Father Gregory in the church basement; that he still argues with Dean about the bright light behind the statue of an angel, that he’s the one Dean and Jess lock out of the car and leave at the church before going to find the man Sam says is going to hurt someone.

He recites the seance ritual from memory, watches as Father Reynolds performs the last rites and Father Gregory disappears into the great beyond.

Or the not so great.

“Are you alright, son?” Father Reynolds asks when he catches Sam back in the main part of the church, staring up at the painting of Michael.

Sam laughs a little. “I should be asking you the same question.”

“God works in mysterious ways. I don’t pretend to understand Him.”

“How do you do that?” Sam asks quietly. He finally turns away from the painting to look at the priest, who’s waiting with his hands folded for Sam to continue. “Have that kind of faith when there’s so much evil in the world.”

“Because there’s good, too. Light in the darkness.”

 _That’s hellfire,_ he thinks dryly to himself.

A firm hand settles on his shoulder. Father Reynolds regards him with a small smile. “Everyone can be saved, Sam.”

Sam knows better than to believe that.

\--

When Dean and Jess pick him up, Sam tells them the ritual was done, that they were right about Father Gregory, and his soul was now at peace. Dean recalls their frantic chase after the man Sam pointed out, how a piece of rebar flew off of a truck and through the windshield, into the perp’s chest. Sam turns to stare out the window, watching the street lamps flicker by on the side of the highway. 

Dean slaps at his arm. “Dude, what’s your deal?”

“Nothing,” Sam mumbles, rubbing at the spot with a frown.

“Liar,” Dean and Jess say in tandem. Dean glances over the seat back, jaw clenched at Jess’ smirk, no doubt biting back the instinctive argument about just who protects whom around here.

They’re possessive like that.

“Come on, brother, I know better.” Dean drums his hands against the steering wheel. “Lay it on me.”

Sam sighs and tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling. “It's just so damn hard to do this. What we do. And when I think about my destiny, about how I could end up…” His voice trails off. The image of Lilith’s dead body flashes behind his eyelids, the bright, all-encompassing light of Lucifer’s grace as the Cage breaks open.

He already knows how this ends.

“I just wish I could believe that there was something else watching. Some higher power. Then maybe…”

“Maybe what?” Jess asks, voice quiet and prodding, a gentle nudge.

He rubs a hand over his lips; he can still taste demon blood in his mouth, the worst kind of drug, liquid lightning that sings through his veins and makes him feel powerful. Invincible.

“Maybe I could be saved.” 

_Dad always said I'd either have to save you or kill you. I'm done trying to save you._

Shuddering, Sam shakes his head. “I don’t know. If there is a Heaven, it’s not like I’m headed there.”

“Sam!” Jess says, head whipping around, eyes wide and chastising. Dean pulls over to the side of the road and puts the car in park, jaw clenched tight. He doesn’t look at Sam.

“You mind giving us a minute?” Dean says, without looking at Jess. 

Jess pauses, glancing from one brother to the other. “Sure,” she drawls. She pushes the door open, thumbing at the hedges. “I’ll just be over here, pretending I can’t hear you scream.”

“Kinky,” Sam says, and Jess winks. 

Dean doesn’t laugh; he waits until she’s out of hearing range to kill the engine, turning fully towards Sam. 

“Look, I don’t know where you got it into your head that you’re a bad person who-- deserves punishment.”

“Telling me you have to save me or kill me might have something to do with it,” he whispers.

Dean swallows, shifting closer to Sam on the bench seat, twisting when his movements are impeded by the gear shift. “What Dad said-- it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Then why’d you try to keep it a secret?”

“‘Cause I knew you’d react like this! Damn it, Sammy--” Dean leans in so close, Sam could kiss him; his eyes are drawn to his lips, to the curve of his mouth, the flush high on his cheeks and the freckles across the bridge of his nose, the way Dean’s eyes track every inch of Sam’s face. Sam remembers another night like this, before he left for Stanford, a distant, crystal clear memory.

They sit there, staring at each other, for what feels like eternity.

Eventually, Dean leans back in his seat and drags his palm over his mouth. _“Fuck,”_ he swears, slamming a hand down on the steering wheel for good measure. He rolls down the window and honks the horn.

Jess strolls over to the car, purposely taking her sweet time.

“Jackass,” she says, slapping at Dean’s head as she passes by. She braces herself on the bench, leaning over to kiss Sam on the cheek before plopping back down in her seat.

\--

They sleep in separate beds that night. Dean drops Sam and Jess off at the motel, then heads back out, no doubt to find a bar and a one-night stand. Sam ignores the way the thought makes his stomach twist, distracted when Jess sits down on the bed wearing only his t-shirt and a smirk tugging at her lips.

He can’t help but smile a little. “What?”

“Well, we have the room all to ourselves.” Jess grins and slings her legs over his hips. She settles herself in his lap, leaning in for a kiss. “What do you think?”

She cups his face in her hands, lips pressing insistently against his. Leaning back, she grins, dragging his shirt over her head, baring herself to his gaze.

She tilts his face back up. “You gonna leave me hanging, Winchester, or are you going to get naked?”

She laughs when Sam rolls them over, dragging his shirt over his head in a single, fluid motion. Jess stretches her arms over her head and arches her back, grinning when Sam’s breath catches in his lungs.

Sam can’t help but stare at the scars, more prominent down her left side, a couple of shades darker than the rest of the surrounding skin.

He swallows, dragging a hand down the curve of her side. “Does it hurt?”

Jess shrugs, leaning in to drop a kiss under his chin. “Not really. My hip still hurts when it rains.” He doesn’t doubt it - the worst of the burns are concentrated there, a raised swath of skin spanning the length of both hands.

The scar across her stomach is a pearlescent slash of slightly raised skin. The image of her stuck to the ceiling and bursting into orange-blue flames burns behind his eyelids, and he gently kisses her belly and moves down. 

He loses himself between her legs, in the gasping, writhing movements of her body, the taste of her on his tongue, the scent of her skin, the press of her thighs around his head - all reminders that she’s still whole, still alive. Jess drags a hand through his hair, pressing her hips closer to his mouth.

He might not know much about this Sam and his Jess, but he does remember _this._

“Sam,” she gasps, _“Sam.”_

She grips his hair harder, moving him exactly where she wants his mouth. “Yes. Harder, right there.” A zing of arousal zips down his spine, making his hips hitch against the bedding.

Jess comes on a trembling sigh, legs shivering around his face. He presses a kiss to the inside of her thigh, and she barely catches her breath before she’s urging him up to her mouth, rolling them over in a frantic meeting of lips and tongue and teeth.

She grins, dark and full of promise, slithering down his body so she can return the favor. She pauses to bite at the ridge of his hip bone, setting his skin alight.

“That’s going to bruise,” he says, hissing when she takes the skin between her teeth, one sharp press.

She lets the skin snap back with a grin. “Like you don’t love it.” She laves at the mark with her tongue. “Maybe next time I’ll leave a bruise on your neck. Let Dean come to his own conclusions.”

The thought of his brother seeing Jess’ claim written on his skin, a clear and purposeful challenge, rattles through his bones and into his skull until he’s shaking.

“That something you want, Sam? My mark on you where your brother can see?”

Sam shudders, moaning when Jess sucks the head of his cock into her mouth. He tosses his head back, hands clenching in the sheets. She takes him apart, piece by piece, stripping away his senses until he’s nothing but the warm-wet feel of her mouth on his skin, her hand stroking around the length of him she can’t fit in her mouth.

Jess twists her wrist and sucks, a single digit from her free hand nudging behind his balls, barely dipping inside.

Sam sees white, mouth open and back arching as he comes like a freight train, orgasm hitting him like a bolt from the blue. Jess swallows around him, sending aftershocks up and down his spine like the aftermath of an earthquake.

Jess crawls up his body while he’s still catching his breath, dropping down with her head against his chest, ear pressed to his racing heartbeat.

“Wow,” she says, breathless and laughing.

Sam can’t find his voice, so he presses a kiss to the top of her head, lets that do the talking.

Dean comes back several hours later, wrinkled and rumpled and smelling of sex and cheap perfume.

He and Jess are under the covers, but he feels every inch as naked as he is when Dean stares at them from across the room, eyes boring through Sam with something Sam refuses to admit looks like yearning.

Dean picks up his duffel and heads into the bathroom, shutting it behind him with a quiet _snick._

Jess kisses his chest, and he drags a hand through her hair. Her gentle breathing lulls him into a troubled sleep.

\--

They don’t talk about the almost-kiss in the Impala.

It isn’t the Winchester way - the Winchester way being deny, deny, deny. Heaven, Earth, or Hell, some things never change.

Instead, as soon as his chest wound is mostly healed, Sam suggests anti-possession tattoos.

Dean and Jess raise their eyebrows in unison. It’s frightening.

"Just thought it would be a good idea, you know. With all the demons we keep running into." He shrugs, a flush creeping up his neck. "Just... something to think about."

Dean’s face breaks into a grin as he slaps a hand on Sam’s shoulder. "Hell, Sammy, knew there was a reason I kept you around." 

Sam huffs and exchanges a glance with Jess, who rolls her eyes. She never calls him Sammy; never dreamt of it while they were together at Stanford, held the nickname as almost sacred when he gave her the reason why he didn’t like anyone calling him that. Sam gets the feeling Dean respects her a little more for it.

The tattoo is still healing the day Meg tries to possess him. He expects her this time, though, gets her exorcized, saves the life of the girl she was possessing. All in all, a pretty good day. 

They get the call the next morning on Dad’s old cell phone, and Dean immediately turns the car around, gunning down the road with the needle tapping at ninety - Steve Wandell died bloody, gutted in his own house. 

Past the police tape, the room reeks of sulfur.

The room spins. Sam holds onto the edge of the couch, reminding himself to breathe.

“Sam,” Jess says as he slips back out into the hall and to the parking lot with a slam of the door. He collapses with his hands on the hood of the Impala, nails scraping at the paint.

“Sam,” Dean says, voice sounding like its coming from far away. “Sammy, hey!”

“I was supposed to stop it,” Sam chokes out, hands clenching into fists.

“ _No._ It's the demon. Yellow Eyes is doin’ a number on your brain. Hey!” He forces Sam around, clutching at Dean’s jacket so he doesn’t fall. “You ain’t goin’ dark side. You hear me, Sammy? There isn’t an evil bone in your body.”

Sam can’t help but laugh at that, coarse and rough. “No. Just in my blood.”

Dean doesn’t have an answer to that.

Jess does.

“Dean’s right. You have to stop blaming yourself every time something goes wrong. Wandell’s death isn’t on your shoulders, so don’t put it there.” She cups his cheek in her palm, stands on her toes to give him a hug from the side so she doesn’t get between him and Dean, his hands still clutched tight in Dean’s shirt. “This isn’t your fault. None of this is.” 

And Sam just - sags in their arms, dropping his head to her shoulder, face pressed into her throat. Jess scratches her nails through the hair at the back of his neck.

“Come on,” Dean says, squeezing his shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”

\--

“Maybe we should take a break,” Jess says, once they’re back on the road a while. She slaps Dean lightly in the shoulder from the back seat. “Didn’t you want to talk to Bobby? About that thing?”

“What thing?”

Jess calls him a moron with nothing but a well-timed look.

Dean clears his throat. “Right. The thing. That I needed to talk to Bobby about.”

Sam rolls his eyes, elbowing Dean lightly in the side. It's been so long since he was able to have this easy, playful intimacy with his brother. He’s starved for it. “You are anything but subtle.”

Dean scoffs, rolling to a stop to allow a group of school children to cross to the yellow bus on the other side of the road. “Are you kidding me? Subtle is my middle name.”

“Sure,” Jess says, drier than the desert. She sits back and folds her arms. “Dean Subtle Jackass Winchester.”

“Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” Dean flashes her a grin.

Jess greets Bobby with a smile and a pat to Rumsfeld’s head, sashaying straight into the kitchen to the fridge for a bottle of beer.

“Don’t worry, I brought reinforcements,” Dean says, holding up two six-packs of PBR and a bottle of Jack Daniels as he settles down at the table.

“Oh goodie,” Bobby drawls, but he takes the offered whiskey and pours himself a glass.

Dean clears his throat, sliding his beer from one palm to the other. “Got a rattle in the Impala’s engine. Think you could take a look later?” 

“A rattle huh?” Bobby asks, adjusting the brim of his hat so he can look at Dean. His brother shifts in his chair.

“Smooth, Dean,” Jess drawls. Sam rolls his eyes.

“Shut your piehole, woman.” Dean flinches when Bobby smacks him.

“Don’t be an asshole.” 

“I don’t think Dean’s capable of that,” Jess says with a wink that makes Sam laugh.

Bobby accompanies Dean outside after dinner to check out the non-existent rattle in his engine. Jess tows Sam upstairs, shoving him down onto the mattress on one of the twin beds and curling up under his arm. She brandishes a deck of cards.

“You suck at poker,” Sam says, ignoring Jess thumping his arm with the deck. He can’t help it if she has an awful poker face.

“Exactly! I need the practice, come _on._ If Dean kicks my ass one more time, I’m going to do something awful to his car.”

“Hey,” Sam’s head snaps up. “You leave her out of it.”

Jess rolls her eyes so hard, her entire head rolls. “Boys and their toys,” she teases, laughing when Sam gives her a playful shove.

They play poker until Jess’ eyes start to close and she can’t seem to keep the cards from slipping out of her hand. Sam waits until she falls asleep to creep back downstairs and into the library.

He scans the titles of Bobby’s many’ many grimoires, looking for something - anything - that can tell him what the hell is going on, how he came to be here, and if there’s any possible way for him to stop the inevitable angel-fueled apocalypse this time around.

He picks up a book that looks promising, flipping through the Ancient Latin written on the pages, brow furrowing when he gets stuck on an odd dialect he doesn’t understand.

“Hey kid,” Bobby says, and Sam slams the book closed. “Doing some light reading?”

“Just couldn’t sleep,” Sam says, placing the huge, leather-backed tome on the table and sitting down, folding his hands in his lap.

“Look. I know you blame yourself for what happened to Wandell,” Bobby says, knees cracking as he sits beside Sam on the couch. “But it ain’t your fault.”

Sam sighs and doesn’t bother making any denials. “Everyone keeps saying that.”

“Then maybe you should just accept that you’re wrong. For once in your life.”

Sam’s hand clenches into a fist on his thigh. He should have been able to stop it. He killed Meg. That should have been the end of things. “The demon is after me. If he wasn’t--”

Bobby slaps at the back of his head. “Did you pull the trigger? No.” Sam rubs at his head and Bobby’s voice gentles. “There’s always gonna be somethin’ after us. We’re hunters. The chances of us not ending bloody ain’t high.”

Sam huffs a laugh, staring down at his knees.

“Now, are we done growin’ lady parts, or do I need to sit here and braid your hair?”

“Dean would love that,” Jess says from the doorway. She covers her mouth as a yawn cracks her jaw. Eyes squinted half-shut with sleep, she holds out her hand. “Sam, come to bed.”

“You heard the woman.” Bobby gives him a little nudge.

Sam stands, pausing when he gets to the door. “Bobby. Thanks.”

“Idjit,” Bobby mutters, tugging his hat over his eyes. Sam grins and takes Jess’ hand.

\--

They stay at Bobby’s for another week. 

Sam tries to spend that time researching, but every time he so much as opens a book, Bobby mysteriously needs help answering phones, or Dean calls him out into the yard to _finally become a man_ and learn how to fix the Impala’s engine, or Jess drags him to bed so they can see just how close they can skirt Bobby’s _no sex under my roof_ rule without going over.

On one memorable occasion, they have sex in the Impala.

“It’s not under Bobby’s roof,” Jess says as she tows him outside with a sly grin.

“No, it’s under Dean’s.”

She shoves him down onto the back seat, slithering up the length of his body with a controlled roll of her hips that makes him groan. She gives him a slow, deep kiss, biting at his bottom lip.

“That just makes it more fun,” she whispers with a smirk.

She’s still smirking when Dean pitches a bitch fit at them “defiling” his baby and Bobby extends his definition of “my roof” to mean “every inch of my property, you little shit.”

“Aw, love you too, Bobby,” Jess says, planting a kiss on his cheek. She dances away when he aims a slap at her thigh with a dish towel.

They take a string of cases after that - short, easy things. A salt and burn in Dover. A poltergeist kicking up a fuss in Rochester. What they thought was a wendigo in Jersey City but turns out to be a very human killer - they refer that one with all of their research to the police.

Jess slams a newspaper down on a motel room table two nights later, shoving an article under his and Dean’s noses.

“History professor jumped four stories to his death last week.”

“Suicide,” Dean says, shoving the paper to the side without even looking down.

“My thought exactly. Except,” she tosses a printed sheet of paper at Dean. “A girl committed suicide in the same building from the same exact window last year.”

Dean picks up the papers with a frown. “Where?”

“Springfield University. Ohio.”

Sam stares at the article, unseeing as his insides turn to ice. Visions of Dean dying a hundred different ways flash before his eyes.

She hops off of the table, snapping Sam out of his head. “What? I’m _bored_. So are we going or what?”

“Sam,” Dean says as she heads into the bathroom for a shower, “Marry that girl.”

Sam jolts so hard, he almost falls off of the chair.

They head straight to the college when they get to Springfield. Sam convinces Jess and Dean to split up and check the classrooms down the hall, while Sam takes the stairs to the fourth floor.

He enters the dead professor’s office, where the “Trickster” is wearing a janitor’s uniform, flipping through one of the textbooks scattered along the desk.

Sam cocks a gun at Gabriel’s head and tells him, "Don't even think about it." 

Gabriel turns and tilts his head to the side in that angelic way that has always reminded Sam of a very large, puzzled bird. He stares at Sam for a long, hard moment, like he’s reading his mind - knowing archangels, he very well could be. 

Then, he grins. “Are you going to shoot me, Sam? Would be a waste of a perfectly good bullet.”

“Maybe. But it would make me feel better.”

Gabriel scoffs, holding a hand to his chest. “Sammy, you wound me! What have I ever done to deserve such disdain?”

“Killed two professors, drove a frat boy to drink, made me relive Dean’s death over and over and over again until it literally drove me crazy--”

“I also saved your sad, sorry asses from the devil,” he says, taking a step forward. He raises an eyebrow. “Or am I remembering incorrectly?”

Sam lowers the gun.

"You're dead, you know," he says, vicious and vengeful. "In my reality, you're dead."

Gabriel shrugs, popping a handful of Skittles that he makes appear out of thin air into his mouth. "I know. Still alive here, though."

“How?”

“Interdimensional travel and a hell of a hangover the next morning.” He grins, malicious and mischievous. “You can’t kill an archangel, Sam. Not even Lucifer. Though he would like to think he’s powerful enough. Spent a few very painful weeks regenerating, then whammied myself here.”

"So _you_ brought me here then,” he accuses, hoping Gabriel will take the bait.

He doesn’t, of course. He’s the living embodiment of the phrase _you can lead the horse to water, but you can’t make him drink._

Gabriel tilts his head to the side and gives him a slow, almost mean grin. "Oh, my brother scrambled you up good."

Sam’s stomach plummets to his shoes. "So this isn't real."

“I didn’t say that.” Gabriel paces towards him, so Sam has to repress the urge to take a step back. "You're not in the Cage. This isn't a hallucination. This is real, Sam. As real as you and me."

"How do I know this isn't a trick?" Sam says, voice shaking despite his best attempts to sound demanding.

"Because you aren't bleeding. And Lucifer isn't this creative."

“But you are.”

“What a charmer.” Sam’s jaw clenches and Gabriel sighs. “Alas. Though I would love to take credit for this particular jaunt through time, sadly, it is not my doing.”

“Then _who?”_

“And you’re supposed to be the smart one. _Think,_ Samuel.” Gabriel rolls his eyes, regarding Sam in a way that says he’s nothing but a dumb meat-monkey, the way that Cas--

Sam doesn’t so much stumble into the answer as slam straight into it like a brick wall. “Castiel. Cas sent me here?”

“Knew you’d get there eventually,” Gabriel says dryly.

“But-- why?”

Gabriel shrugs, tossing the Skittles package into the trash. “Don’t know. Last minute moment of weakness. Regret. Or maybe the same reason you thought you were here all along.”

Sam rolls his head on his neck, trying to work out the tension that’s been there since he woke up in that hospital two months ago. “And what’s that?”

“Absolution.” Gabriel pats at Sam’s chest, face folding into a rare show of sincerity. "You can stop it this time, you know." He winks at Sam then disappears with a snap of his fingers.

"I know," Sam whispers. Like he hasn't been thinking about that the entire time. 

\--

Jess and Dean come up empty.

Sam tells them he didn’t find anything, either, goes as far as taking the EMF meter upstairs, knowing full well the damn thing will remain silent. Gabriel’s long gone, after all.

They wait around for another three days before calling it quits.

“Bupkis,” Dean says, shoving past Jess and tossing his bag into the trunk of the Impala. “We got bupkis.”

“I really thought this was something,” Jess says with a frown, and Sam tucks his arm around her shoulders, glaring at Dean and feeling like the worst boyfriend on the planet.

“I would have thought it was something, too. There was nothing wrong with your research. It was just--”

“A coincidence?” Jess says dryly, hopping into the back seat when Sam holds the door open.

“No such animal,” Dean grunts, putting the car in drive.

“Then what exactly do you call this?”

“A shot in the dark,” Dean says; Sam punches him in the thigh. Dean cuffs him around the ear.

“Dude, why are you being such an asshole?”

“Oh, bite me, dick,” Dean snaps, flicking on the radio and turning up the volume until _House of the Rising Sun_ fills the car. “Got a haunting in Nevada out on Highway 41.” He tosses a sheaf of papers at Sam. “Start reading, Geekboy.”

“Jackass,” Jess hisses; Dean turns the music up louder. Jess huffs and glances at Dean before she hooks her chin over Sam’s shoulder, nips behind his ear. Sam inhales sharply, shooting a glare at Jess. She grins.

“Read it to me,” she says, and he does. Twelve accidents over fifteen years, all of them happening on the same night on the same stretch of highway. Year after year, witnesses say the same thing made them crash - a woman appearing in the middle of the road, being chased by a man covered in blood. 

Sam swallows hard, hands shaking as he flips through the pages. He remembers this one, too - how Molly flags them down, breathless and terrified. How she’s chased and tortured by the spirit of Jonah Greeley every year, on the anniversary of their deaths. How she doesn’t know she’s been dead for fifteen years.

How she fades away in a flash of white light.

“You think she's really going to a better place?” Jess asks, watching the space where Molly disappears.

Considering what he knows of Heaven, not in the least. “I hope so,” Sam says, and he does; for her sake.

“I guess we'll never know.” Dean elbows him in the side. “Not until we take the plunge ourselves, huh?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, refusing to shatter Dean’s fragile hope.

That night, while Dean and Jess are asleep, Sam goes out to the motel parking lot, turns his eyes up to the stars, and prays for the first time in years, hoping someone will answer - the right person. 

No one ever does.


	2. Part II

They’re in Vegas when they get the call from Bobby.

“Deacon tracked a bunch of violent deaths out in San Francisco,” he says when Dean puts the call on speaker. “Bunch of women washed up in the bay, hookers from Hunter’s Point, all of them missing hearts. Think it might be a werewolf. You interested?”

Sam goes over the info they’re able to dig up off of Bobby’s tip, does a rough approximation of the math. He and Dean were in San Francisco in April, a month after Madison was bitten.

It’s March. Day two of the full moon. 

“Whoa, Sam, where’s the fire?” Jess says with a laugh when Sam starts shoving their clothes into his bag with zero regards for their well being.

He shakes his computer into his backpack. “Just-- anxious to get there is all.”

A smile breaks across Dean’s face, and he pats Sam on the cheek “Look at you, all grown up and fighting werewolves.” He sniffs a little. “I’m so proud.”

Sam bats his hand away, exchanges a bemused glance with Jess, and grabs their weapons duffel. “Asshole. Come on.”

Dean parks the Impala a couple of miles from Hunter’s Point and hands Sam and Jess each a gun loaded with silver bullets. 

“Don’t try to take the thing on yourself,” Dean says, and Jess snorts, leading the way down the block. 

“Paging Mr. Kettle, there’s a Mr. Pot on the line.”

“You know you’re not nearly as cute as you think you are,” Dean says.

Jess bats her eyes at him over her shoulder. “I could say the same thing about you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m adorable.”

“You’re something,” Jess mutters; Sam holds up his hand, stopping them in their tracks.

“What happened, Lassie, Timmy fall down the well?”

“Shh!” Sam covers Dean’s mouth with his palm; Dean shoves his hand away.

Sam listens harder; he could swear he heard someone screaming, but he can barely make out anything besides the whistle of the wind off of the water.

“Sam?” Jess asks.

“Please!” someone yells. “Someone help me!”

He would recognize that voice anywhere. The sound of her crying is branded into his memory.

Sam takes off at a run, dodging between parked cars as he crosses the street. Jess and Dean’s footsteps pound the pavement at his back.

“Get down!” Sam shouts, and Madison hits the pavement. When Nate lifts his head with a mouth full of teeth, Sam shoots him twice, right in the heart.

Sam skids to the ground at Madison’s side. She slides backward with a terrified gasp.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, it's okay.” Sam holds up his gun, pushing it to the side. “Its okay, we’re not gonna hurt you.”

“Sam,” Jess says softly, pushing him back with a gentle hand. She crouches down in front of Madison.

“Hey. You’re okay now. You’re safe.”

Madison looks at Jess, but eventually holds out a shaking hand, letting Jess tug her to her feet.

She looks back at where Nate is lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood.

“Is he dead?”

“Yes. He can’t hurt you anymore.” Jess puts her arm around Madison’s shoulders. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

Jess steers Madison towards the Impala, while Dean makes an anonymous call about the dead body. By the time they reach the car, Jess has Madison settled in the back with the blanket they keep under the passenger seat around her shoulders.

“Her name’s Madison,” Jess whispers.

Sam swallows and crouches down so he’s on her level, staying to the side, so Madison has an escape route. “Hi, Madison. I’m Sam, and this is my brother, Dean. Can you tell us what happened?”

“I was walking home after a date. Nate-- the guy who--” She takes a deep breath. “We broke up a couple of weeks ago, and he’s been stalking me ever since.” She swallows hard, and Sam nods at her to continue. “He followed me to my car, so I ran. That’s when he attacked me.”

“Attacked you how?” _Please don’t say he bit you,_ Sam repeats to himself. _Please. Please._

“I-- I don’t know. He came up behind me and-- it was like something smacked me in the back of the neck.”

“Can I…” He trails off. Madison bites her lip, but she nods, brushing her hair out of the way.

Five sluggishly bleeding, jagged lines crawl across the back of her neck.

“Claws,” Dean says, and Sam almost falls over, dizzy with relief. 

He did it. He saved her.

They stick around to make sure she’s okay, that she’s not going to turn. When Madison slinks backward at the suggestion, Jess offers to take the couch, while Sam and Dean sleep in the car.

Sam gets the text from Jess at sunrise - _She didn’t turn._

He shows the screen to his brother, who grunts into his coffee. Neither of them got much sleep last night.

 _We should stay one more night,_ Sam texts back, _Just to be sure._

“You know, for a stake-out, your car’s a bit conspicuous,” Madison says, and Sam jumps, head smacking against the top of the car.

“Good work, Jolly Green,” Dean says.

Madison laughs even while she winces. “What are you still doing here?”

“We just-- wanted to make sure you were safe. Figured we would hang out here rather than get a motel.”

“That’s awfully stalker-like of you, Sam.” She smirks. “Well, if you’re gonna stick around, you might as well come upstairs.”

“Are you sure?” Sam says before Dean can get a word in edgewise. “We don’t have to if you’re not comfortable.”

“That’s exactly why I’m sure.” She gives him a soft smile, one he remembers so well. “Come on up.”

Everything about the apartment looks the same - the cream color of the walls, the open plan kitchen, the blue paint in her bedroom, her basket of laundry on the couch.

Except--

Madison flirts shamelessly with his brother. When she overturns her laundry basket, it’s Dean who she’s looking at, Dean who sits on the couch and watches soap operas even though he pretends he doesn’t care. 

Dean who spends the night in her bed.

Something tugs at Sam when his brother laughs as he kisses her goodbye the next morning, a hitch that gets caught in his chest and won’t let go.

The same hitch that sticks in his throat when Dean comes out of Tara Benchley’s trailer on the haunted horror movie set in Los Angeles.

The same hitch that steals his breath when Dean is attacked by the ghost of Nurse Glockner in the infirmary of the maximum security prison in Little Rock.

The same hitch that squeezes his lungs until he can’t remember how to breathe when Dean is kidnapped by the djinn in Illinois.

Sam and Jess find him in the basement of an old warehouse, strung up by his wrists, feet barely touching the floor, a tube in his neck connected to a bag of blood hanging from a pipe in the ceiling.

“Dean!” Sam yells; Dean’s eyes don’t open.

Jess yanks the tube out of his neck, putting pressure on the wound with her bare hand. 

“Oh god, come on.” Sam shakes Dean by the shoulders, cupping his face between his palms. “Wake up. Wake up, damn it!”

Dean grunts, head lolling on his shoulders. His eyes flutter open. “Auntie Em, there's no place like home.”

Sam drops his head for a moment, trying to catch his breath. His heart pounds out a drum solo in his chest.

Jess stands on her toes, cutting through the ropes.

“I thought I lost you for a second,” Sam says, thumbs brushing across Dean’s cheeks.

Dean leans as far forward as he can until their foreheads touch, brushes an almost-kiss across Sam's lips. “You almost did.”

Sam swallows past the lump in his throat, holding Dean steady as Jess helps him down, leaning all of his weight on Sam’s shoulder. 

“Down!” Jess shouts, and Sam drops without hesitation, shielding Dean’s body as he takes his brother to the ground.

He hears two gunshots, lifts his head as the djinn staggers backward, a bullet lodged straight between the eyes. 

“Sammy,” Dean says, voice hoarse as he hands over the silver knife dipped in lamb’s blood. 

Sam slides the knife to Jess, who grabs it with barely a pause, ducking the blue light in the djinn’s hands, left, right, left again, then stabs the blade through his heart.

She rips the knife back as the djinn’s body falls to the floor in a heap.

“So,” Jess says, chest heaving, “Not that this isn’t touching, but can we save the emotional reunion for when we get out of here?”

Sam’s hard-pressed to disagree. Jess heaves Dean to his feet, dropping her arm around his waist while she and Sam help him up the stairs and out to the car.

They settle him in the backseat, legs propped up. “I’ll sit back here with him,” Jess says, dropping his legs into her lap as she takes a look at the bruises and oozing welts on his wrists. Sam drives.

“Aw,” Dean says, “Were you worried about me?”

Jess snorts. “Not even a little.” 

Sam shakes his head. Liar.

“Liar,” Dean echoes; he inhales sharply and Sam glances back to see Jess gently cleaning out the wounds. “Admit it; I’m under your skin.”

“Like a tick.”

“Like a tattoo. An awesome one you can’t ever be rid of.”

“I think the blood loss has screwed with your brain.”

The two of them bicker the entire way back to the motel. Sam lets them carry on, a distraction from the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, making his hands shake.

He helps Jess get Dean out of the car and to a bed, leaning him back against the headboard.

“Take off your shirt,” Jess says, sitting beside him. “I want a better look at your neck.”

“Oh baby,” Dean drawls, wincing when he tries to lift his arms over his head. Sam helps strip his shirts off, then goes to dig out the med kit.

“Is everything about sex to you?” Jess frowns when she sees the cut where the tube went in, red around the edges. Sam hisses in sympathy.

“Absolutely everything.” Jess huffs a laugh while Sam cleans out the wound. She squeezes Dean’s hand when he winces.

“So, what were you dreaming about?” Sam asks, trying to take his mind off of the pain.

Dean scoffs. "Dude, you don't want to know." 

Jess looks up at him, that odd, indescribable look on her face she gets sometimes that Sam still hasn’t been able to parse out.

As he goes to sleep that night, Sam thinks about how much he still has to learn about this timeline.

\--

May 1st, 2007.

Dean pulls into the parking lot of a run-down diner, where the lights flicker on the bright, yellow sign.

“Not it,” Jess says from the passenger seat, reading the magazine in her lap. Sam stares out the window, heart beating so hard in his chest, he’s surprised Dean and Jess can’t hear.

He won't get out of the car.

He won't get out of the car.

_He won't get out of the car._

Dean slaps his arm. "Come on, dude, I went in last time."

Sam takes a deep breath and gets out of the car.

\--

He wakes up in Cold Oak, lying on an old, rotted door and staring at the sky.

“Son of a bitch,” he whispers, holding a hand to his pounding head. This is one place he hoped he’d never see again.

He finds Andy and Ava on the street and locked in the shed, exactly like he remembers. Jake and Lily join them, terrified and disbelieving that a demon could have done all of this to them.

Lily hangs herself that night. 

The guilt of her death gnaws at Sam’s insides, threatens to eat him alive.

“You can’t save them all.”

Sam whips his head around to find Yellow Eyes standing in the corner of the room, a smirk plastered across his face. The light around his face flares in his mind’s eye, revealing the ugly, black, demonic face underneath, the air around him shifting and bending, thick and stifling, like ozone before a storm.

,

Fan-fucking-tastic.

“Heya Sammy.”

“Azazel,” Sam says, catching Yellow Eyes by surprise; they never learned his name until after the fact.

He shakes himself with a chuckle, folding his hands in front of his stomach. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises.”

“If you’re planning to monologue me about how I’m your demon messiah, save it. I know exactly what happened the night you killed my mother.”

“Then you know that you should just stop fighting who you are. Open yourself up to that power I gave you when I bled into your mouth. Once you give in to it, there are all sorts of new Jedi mind tricks you can learn.”

“Like controlling demons. Killing them.”

“Ah,” he snaps his fingers and points at Sam, making him jump, “you are quick on the draw. That’s why you were always my favorite, Sammy.” He circles Sam, who turns to keep Azazel in his sights. “How did you figure that out, by the way? Daddy spill the beans before he kicked it?”

Sam clenches his jaw. Azazel grips his wrist before he can rip his hand away.

“Oh. Oh ho ho ho.” A macabre smile crosses Azazel’s face. “Well, I’ll be goddamned. Someone’s been playing Resistance to my Skynet. That’s _adorable._ ”

“Shut the hell up,” Sam says through gritted teeth.

“What did you expect, Sammy? That if you traveled back in time, I’d abandon ship and let you live the life you’ve always wanted? That I’d be quaking in my boots?”

“You should be,” Sam says, braver than he feels at the moment, “Because this time is going to be different.”

“No, it won’t. Everything will be the same. Know how I know?” He steps up to Sam, whispering in his ear, “Because it has to be you, Sam. And you will _always_ end up here.”

He snaps his fingers and Sam wakes up with a gasp.

“Sam!” Jake shakes his shoulder; Sam barely bites back the urge to punch him in the face. “Ava’s gone.”

“No,” Sam chokes out, sprinting for the other room. The icheri demon has Andy pressed against the wall, eyes wide and terrified. Ava stands at the other end of the room, one hand pressed to her temple. Her head snaps up when Sam and Jake skid into the room. Sam grabs the metal poker on the floor, while Jake lunges towards Ava.

“Hey!” Sam says, and the demon turns, just before she flickers and disappears.

The snap of Ava’s neck echoes in his ears, and Sam turns his face away as Jake drops her body to the floor.

Andy slides down the wall, pressing his face into his hands. “Oh god. She tried to kill me.”

Sam tosses the steel poker to the side and crouches down with a sigh. “I know.”

“I’m not going to get out of here, am I?”

“You are. We all will.”

Andy drops his hands, desperation written across every inch of his face. “How?”

Sam points at the empty entryway. “We’re gonna walk right out the front door.”

“We?” Jake scoffs, hesitant and incredulous; Sam bites back the urge to throttle him now before this entire plan goes up in flames.

“Yes. We.”

“How can we trust you? Demon’s only gonna let one of us live.” Jake taps at his thigh with the knife he draws from his pocket. Andy recoils. “I could kill you both right now.”

“You could. But then you’d be playing right into his hands.” Sam fingers the knife in his pocket, slowly taking it out and tossing the weapon to the ground. “Jake-- help us. Please. And I promise I’ll get all of us out.”

Jake clenches his jaw, but he tosses his knife to the ground. Sam exhales hard. He offers his hand to Andy, who stares for a moment, then allows Sam to yank him to his feet.

“Come on," Sam says. "Let’s go home.”

Sam leads them around the buildings and heads for the path through the woods out of town. He glances over his shoulder - for the demon, for Andy, for Jake. For a betrayal like the bright fire of a knife twisting through his spine.

Sam leads a panicking Andy through deep, cleansing breaths. He manages to keep calm as they sprint through the woods to the dark, empty field where Bobby, Dean, and Jess are waiting on the other side.

Then Dean screams his name.

Sam turns, lightning quick, wrenches the knife from Jake's grip, and shoves it deep into his throat. Andy jumps back with a scream.

"That is for Dean, you backstabbing son of a bitch," he says roughly, letting the body crumple to the ground.

Sam stares at his hands, knuckles white where they clench around the handle in a tight fist. Blood drips from the blade down to his wrist.

Dean pries the knife from his fingers, flinging it to the side. Jess takes both of his hands in hers, but he’s shaking so hard, she can’t find a good enough grip.

"You’re okay, Sam," she says quietly, soothing him like she would a jittery horse. She brushes her fingers through his hair. "You’re okay."

Dean whispers something to Bobby that Sam can’t quite make out. A warm hand squeezes the back of Sam’s neck, calluses as familiar as his own. 

“Let’s go, Sasquatch,” Dean murmurs.

“Andy?” Sam barely manages to get the word through lips that have gone numb.

“He’s okay. Bobby’s got ‘im. He’s taking him home.” Dean grips his shoulder, steering him towards the car. “Let’s get you out of here, too, come on.”

Sam’s quiet when they get into the Impala. Jess tugs him into the backseat with his head on her shoulder, folding her arm around his shoulders.

He’s still shaking.

That night, he buries his head in Dean’s chest, holds him so close, he can barely breathe. 

Jess runs her fingers through his hair, and Sam lifts his head and kisses her, deep and desperate, like he’ll never kiss her again.

Dean clears his throat. “So, I’ll just--“ He starts to get up, pulling away from Sam. Jess reaches over and grabs his arm.

Dean freezes, eyes wide like a deer in the headlights. She strokes her thumb on the underside of his elbow.

“Stay,” she says quietly. She glances from Dean to Sam, and it hits him like a ton of bricks, what that indecipherable expression on her face means:

She knows, about him and Dean. She knew the whole time.

"Jess--" Dean protests, voice hoarse and half-terrified, mirroring the storm of emotions crashing through Sam’s body.

She gives him a soft smile. "Like I didn't figure it out before you ever showed up on our doorstep. Like I didn't already _know."_

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispers, and Jess shakes her head.

“Don’t you dare apologize. I knew what I was getting into from the moment you told me the truth.” She huffs a laugh. “Maybe even before then.”

She cups Sam’s face in her free hand, leaning forward to press a soft, sweet kiss to his lips.

“It’s okay,” she says when Sam hesitates to make a move. “Do it.”

Sam turns over, careful not to dislodge Jess’ fingers. She presses her other hand to Sam’s shoulder while he stares at his brother.

“Are you sure?” Dean asks; Sam answers him with a kiss.

The dam breaks as their lips touch, years of pent-up emotions spilling over into each other’s mouths like they need to feel everything right here, right now, or they never will again.

"This is what you dreamt about, isn't it?” Sam asks, breathless. “With the djinn." Dean swallows, nods his head. Sam kisses him again.

Jess doesn’t get between them, but she doesn’t let go.

\--

They fall asleep together, one mass of twisted limbs with Sam in the middle. Sam wakes up at the trill of Dean’s phone and shoves his face into the pillow with a groan.

“Dean, your phone,” Jess mumbles. Dean grasps at the bedside table with his eyes closed, knocking over the alarm clock. Sam yelps when the phone smacks him in the cheek.

“Jerk,” Sam mutters. Dean pretends to snore.

Sam rubs at his eyes, checks the caller ID, and picks up. “Hey, Bobby.”

“It’s Ellen,” she says, frantic. Sam sits straight up in bed. 

He forgot - he _forgot_ -the Roadhouse, burned to the ground.

Dean sits up as soon as Sam does, on high alert. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Ellen.”

“No it ain’t,” he says as he yanks the phone away from Sam. “Who the fuck is this?”

“You mind your tongue with me, Dean Winchester, or I’ll yank it right outta your dumb fool head with a pair of rusty pliers.”

Dean pulls the phone away from his ear. Stares at the screen then puts the call on speakerphone. “Ellen?”

“No, the ghost of Christmas past.”

“It’s her,” Jess says while she brushes her hair out of her face.

“Bobby’s hurt,” she says, blunt and matter-of-fact.

Sam’s blood turns to ice. “Is he--“

“He’s gonna be fine. But you kids need to get here right away.”

“Be there in an hour.” Dean snaps the phone shut.

He speeds down the highways, maneuvering the Impala like she’s an extension of his limbs. The wheels kick up dust as they race up the salvage yard and skid to a stop in front of the porch. Dean slams into the house, guns blazing, taking aim when he finds Ellen and Bobby at the kitchen table.

“Hold.” Bobby holds up his hand; there’s a bandage taped to the side of his head. “It’s her. I already checked.”

Dean lowers the gun. Sam, on the other hand, can’t stop staring, watching Ellen like at any moment she could disappear. The last time he saw her, Jo was bleeding out on the dirty floor of a hardware store. 

The last time he saw Ellen, she died.

“You okay, baby?” Ellen asks, and Sam drags a hand over his eyes to hide the tears there.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” He shakes himself. “What happened?”

“Andy,” Bobby spits out. “The demon must have gotten to him.”

“How?” Dean asks, throwing up his hands. “This place is like a fortress.”

“His dreams,” Sam says, quiet and ashamed. Jess reaches down to squeeze his hand.

Bobby clears his throat. “Well, that explains a lot. He was fine the whole time we were in the car, even sat and had a couple of beers with me before I sent him up to bed. Went to check on him in the morning when I saw him outside, and he clocked me one with a socket wrench.” Sam winces. “When I woke up, it was to Ellen standin’ over me with a gun and a bottle of holy water. Drank it down then asked if she could have somethin’ stronger.” His eyes narrow. “How’d you know it was really her callin’?”

“She called Dean a fool and threatened to tear his tongue out with a pair of rusty pliers,” Jess says, and Bobby snorts.

“That’ll do it.” 

Jess smirks, sinking into a chair across the table.

Dean scowls and ignores them all. “How’d you get out?” he asks, taking the shot of whiskey Bobby offers, just to have something to hold between his hands.

Ellen throws back what Sam suspects is not her first shot of whiskey. “Was out in the supply shed. We ran out of pretzels. Of all things. It was just dumb luck.” Bobby pours her another glass, which she tosses back without preamble.

“Ash…?” Sam says, making the words a question he already knows the answer to.

Ellen gives him a half smile, eyes full of tears as she shakes her head. “He wasn’t there. He’s visiting Jo. Told them to lay low for a while, until this whole thing blows over.”

Sam needs to grab onto the counter to keep himself upright. Jess grabs his other hand. He doesn’t know who else was caught in the fire this time, but Ash is alive - he survived. Somehow.

“Thank god,” Sam chokes out, even though God has nothing to do with it. 

“When I called to tell him what happened, he told me he knows what they were lookin’ for,” Ellen says, sniffing and tugging out her phone to show them a picture. “Its a map of Wyoming. I have no idea what the hell it means.”

“Wyoming,” Jess says, frowning. “What the hell is in Wyoming?”

“Old Faithful, the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone,” Dean lists off, and Jess glares.

Ellen ignores him entirely. “Whatever it is, the demonic omens in those marked areas are off the charts. If I had to guess, that’s where Andy and the demon’ll turn up.”

Sam shoves his chair away from the table so hard, it kicks up on the back legs before crashing to the floor. He rushes to Bobby’s desk to grab an atlas and a marker. “I know where he’s going.”

“Sam?” Bobby asks, hesitant and wary. Sam takes Ellen’s phone, painstakingly drawing out the marks in their correct placements. He connects the five x’s in the shape of a star.

“Holy shit,” Bobby whispers, “Is that--“

“A one hundred mile-wide Devil’s Trap. Yes.” He points to the map. “Each of these x's is an abandoned frontier church. All of them built by Samuel Colt.”

“Samuel Colt,” Dean says, standing to get a better look at the map, “As in _the_ Colt?”

“Exactly. He built private railway lines connecting church to church, guarding a cemetery in the middle.”

“And demons can’t cross,” Jess says, amazed and mystified. “That’s genius.” She looks up at Sam, cocking her head to the side, reminding him of the angels for a moment that sends a cold trickle of fear down his spine. “How do you know all of this?”

He gives himself a mental shake and grips onto the edge of the table; the lies slide off of his tongue so easily, Sam feels unclean. “When we found the Colt, I went on a research spree. Colt wrote about it in his journal.”

“What’s he after?” Jess asks, cutting off Dean’s attempt at what would no doubt be a scathing reprimand with a glare that he returns in spades.

“This.” Sam jabs his finger at the center. “There’s a tomb in the cemetery.”

“And every cemetery in the known universe,” Dean grumbles, slouching against the counter.

Sam doesn’t look up from the map. “Except none of those tombs are actually a Devil’s Gate.”

“Shit,” Ellen hisses, jolting in her seat. 

Bobby whistles, low and long. “Damn, kid. When you step in it, you drag that shit everywhere, don’t you?”

Jess holds up a hand like she’s waiting to be called on. “Sorry, what’s a Devil’s Gate?”

“In simplest terms?” Ellen pours herself another shot, swishing the whiskey around in her glass. “A doorway to Hell.”

“Lovely,” Jess drawls.

Dean throws back the shot and slams the glass onto the table, reprimand as disappointed and scathing as Sam imagined. “You didn’t think to mention any of this when the Colt went missing?”

“I didn’t think it was relevant, Dean!” He pulls himself to his full height when his brother attempts to loom. “There were never any omens in the area, it’s one hundred miles of iron and nineteenth century, demon-repelling wizardry; how the hell could Yellow Eyes get through?”

“Look, point is, we know where the demon’s going, and we know what he’s after,” Jess says, preventing the argument from going any further. She’s been witness to enough of his and Dean’s disagreements to know they could carry on for days without either of them conceding. “The question is, what are we going to do about it?”

\--

The answer is, like most things that define the course of Sam’s life, both simple and stupid.

Dean, Jess, and Ellen have already crossed the railway lines, hiding in wait in the cemetery in front of the Devil’s Gate.

Bobby pauses as he moves to join them. “Sam. I sure hope you know what the hell you’re doin.’”

Sam almost laughs. “Me too.” This could be the stupidest thing he’s ever done, and that includes releasing the Devil from his cage.

_Look at your life, Samuel Winchester. Look at your choices._

Sam takes a deep breath before he pulls the lever to move the tracks and break the line--

That’s already been broken.

Sam takes out his gun and runs full-tilt towards the cemetery. He skids to a stop at the sight of Dean and Jess on their knees, hands behind their heads and guns on the ground, Bobby sprawled in the dirt, and Ellen standing in front of the doors with her gun pressed against her temple. 

“Hey, Sam.”

Sam spins around. A fist collides with his face, knocking him flat. He groans, looking up at his attacker from the ground.

Andy stands over him with the Colt in his hand, stone-faced and cold.

“Gun,” he says, holding out his hand, “Or I make her blow her own head off.”

Sam hands his gun to Andy. He unloads the magazine before tossing the gun to the ground. There’s still a bullet in the chamber.

Sam holds up his hands. “Andy, don’t.”

“I won’t kill you. Why waste a bullet when what comes out of here can just do the job instead.”

He steps over Sam’s legs, heading for the doors to the Devil’s Gate. “There can only be one Highlander, Sam. You lost.”

He turns to insert the gun into the lock. Sam hesitates before taking him down, knows his father’s soul is still stuck in hell, that if he’s stuck on that rack, he’ll eventually get up. 

_As he breaks, so shall it break._ Even John Winchester has his limits. 

Sam rolls to the side, tackling Andy to the ground. Dean goes to grab the Colt, but it's too late; the doors blow open, knocking him to the side as the first wave of demons pours out.

“You can’t stop them!” Andy says, while Ellen and Bobby clamor to shove the doors shut, putting the full force of their weight against them. “It's too late! Its over!”

“You’re right.” Sam picks up his gun. “It is over.”

He shoots Andy in the chest; forces himself to watch as Andy’s eyes widen with shock, tears rolling down his cheeks. Blood soaks his shirt, pooling under his body when he falls to the ground.

“Sam!” Jess shouts, just before Sam goes flying against a nearby tree. Azazel grins, eyes seeming to glow in the dark.

“Good work, champ.” He flicks his wrist, and Jess screams as she’s thrown backward, back slamming into a tombstone with a crack. 

“I’ll deal with you in a minute. First, your boyfriend and I need to have a little chat.” He turns back to Sam with a grin that splits both of his faces. “Congratulations. You’re the last man standing. I knew you had it in you.”

“Good for you.”

“You don’t want to make me your enemy, Sam.” Yellow Eyes crouches over where Sam is sprawled against the tree. “You want to be the good little soldier here.”

“Or you’ll what?”

“Gut every single person in this cemetery. Starting with your girlfriend.” 

“Sam, don’t!”

“Silence.” He squeezes his fingers into a fist; Jess wheezes as he cuts off her air supply.

He brushes his hands off on his jeans. “There. That’s better. No more interruptions. Time for you and I to talk, man to man. After all, you’ve always been my favorite, my boy.”

“I don’t belong to you,” Sam grinds out.

“I made you," Yellow Eyes says, leaning further into Sam's space. "Everything you are, everything you’ve done in your pathetic excuse for a life is because of what I did when you were all of six months old. So tell me, Sammy. Who else do you belong to?”

“Me.”

Yellow Eyes spins around, releasing his hold on Jess, who collapses to her knees. Dean raises the Colt and shoots him in the heart. The demon’s body shakes, flickering once, twice, before that demonic light under his skin goes out and he falls to the ground, dead.

Dean lowers the gun, leans over the body, and says, “That was for our mom, you son of a bitch.”

“Dean,” Bobby says, and both Sam and Dean turn away from the demon, to where their father’s spirit is standing, watching his boys with a proud smile on his face. 

John disappears in a flash of white light, and the tears in Sam’s eyes spill over. 

“You really think that was Dad?” Dean asks, wiping at the tear tracks on his own cheeks.

Sam huffs an almost silent laugh. “If anyone’s stubborn enough to climb outta hell, it’s John Winchester.” Dean smiles, an uptick at the corner of his mouth.

Jess limps over and wraps her arm around both of their backs, a solid, comforting weight.

“Come on,” she says, “Let’s go home.”

\--

Jess calls dibs on first shower. 

Dean says he’s not even going to bother, muttering something about clean clothes and a semi-clean bed as he hauls himself up the stairs. Sam wanders over to the kitchen sink, turning on the water as hot as he can stand.

“Want to tell me what that was all about?”

Sam’s brow furrows as he washes the dirt from his hands. “What what was all about?”

Ellen grabs the back of his shoulder, yanking his body around and forcing him to look her in the eye. “Don’t gimme no bullshit, Winchester. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Did you leave your critical thinking skills in your other jeans, or did you lose them somewhere on the highway?”

Sam drops his eyes to his shoes, unable to dredge up any excuse to defend himself. 

“Harvelle, we’ve all had a shit day,” Bobby says as he slumps down into a chair. “Leave the boy be for the night, would you?”

“You’re right.” Ellen sighs, cupping Sam’s cheek in her hand. Sam leans into the touch. “I’m sorry, honey. There’s no shame in not wanting your father to stay in hell for eternity, it's just-- some things are better left the way they are.” She knuckles him under the chin. “We can talk more about this in the morning. Go get some sleep.”

Sam trudges up the stairs, not bothering to do anything but take off his shoes, his jeans, and his shirt. Dean lifts the covers, and Sam slides into bed, curling up against his back and burying his nose in his hair, reveling in the scent of his sweat and his skin, safety and protection and love all rolled into one.

“Jess still in the shower?”

“Yeah,” Dean grunts. A long moment of silence passes.

“Did you?” Dean asks. “Let Andy open the door?”

Sam sighs; he should have known Dean would be listening. “I don’t know. I just-- it was like I froze. I knew I should stop him, but the thought of Dad being in hell forever--” He swallows hard, shakes his head.

“You know, Dad would have said nothing was worth saving his soul.” He turns his head enough that Sam can see the sincerity written everywhere from the corner of his eyes to the lines around his mouth. “He would have been wrong. I’m proud of you, Sammy.”

And isn’t that just a kick in the ass?

\--

They stay at Bobby’s for another two weeks; Jess’ back is a riot of bruising, purple-black and swollen. Ellen takes her to urgent care and gets her the good painkillers, leaving her woozy and giggly and down for the count.

Ellen doesn’t bring up what happened in the cemetery again, although she regards Sam with no small amount of suspicion. He, Jess, and Dean barely touch each other, beyond connecting the twin beds in the spare room and literally, chastely sleeping together.

The day they leave Sioux Falls, Dean drives all of fifty miles down the highway before he pulls into the parking lot of an open motel, parks, and jumps out to get a key. Jess jerks her head at Sam when he gets out of the car to stretch. 

“What?” He asks, grinning.

He lets her push him back into the passenger seat before planting herself on his lap, curling her fingers around his chin as she presses an open-mouthed kiss to his lips.

Sam groans, one hand keeping Jess from slipping, the other curling tight in her hair.

Dean clears his throat. “I hope I’m not interrupting something,” he says, and Sam huffs when Jess pulls away, turning to give Dean a raised eyebrow.

“Nothing that can’t wait,” Jess says, tugging down her skirt as she gets to her feet. She holds out her hand for Sam, waiting for him to lock the car before they follow Dean to a room at the end of the strip.

Dean holds the door open, allowing them to go inside first. He kicks the door shut while Jess turns on the lights, yanking Sam towards him by his flannel. 

When they kiss, it's like a lightning strike, a thunderclap, bodies colliding in a storm. Hips press up against hips as he yanks Sam’s shirt out of his waistband.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Jess breathes, frozen with one arm half out of her shirtsleeve. 

Dean chuckles when Sam groans, turns his head and winks at Jess. “Baby, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

Sam lunges forwards and bites at Dean’s bottom lip. “Fuck,” Dean curses into his mouth, pulling away just enough to yank his own shirt over his head. “Come on, Sammy, get naked.”

“Such a charmer, you are,” Jess says, tossing her shirt to the side, while Sam slips out of his flannel and sheds his t-shirt. He unbuttons his jeans and almost chokes when Jess tugs him towards her by the belt loop, nipping at his hip bone. He steadies himself with a hand in her hair.

“He likes a bit of teeth,” Jess says to Dean, glancing up at Sam from beneath her lashes. 

“Oh he does, does he?” Sam shudders as he approaches, a line of heat at his back. Dean ducks his head to bite at the hinge of Sam’s jawline, squeezes at Sam’s other hip, hard enough to bruise. 

“Fuck," Sam hisses, tilting his head back onto Dean's shoulder.

"That comes later," he says, a rough rumble against Sam's ear that makes his breath hitch in his chest.

“You better be prepared to share,” Jess teases, pinning Sam between them, caught like a willing fly in a very attractive web.

There’s a heavy silence, a breathless moment where Sam thinks the fragile truce between them will shatter. 

Then, Dean chuckles, leaning his chin on Sam’s shoulder. “With him? Or with you?”

Jess grins slow and leering, uses Sam’s waist to anchor herself as she stands on her toes, kissing Dean over his shoulder.

Sam groans. “Could you do that where I can watch?”

“Didn’t peg you for the voyeuristic type, Samantha,” Dean says, dragging himself away from Jess’ lips. Sam reaches back to pinch the skin between his ribs.

Jess pats Dean’s cheek when he jumps. “Only when it comes to you.”

She kisses his slack mouth, takes a step backward, and unhooks her bra, letting it fall down her arms and to the floor.

“Damn,” Dean breathes, and Jess grins, a flush high on her cheeks.

She crooks her finger at Dean. “You want a show, Sam?” she asks, eyes sparkling as she slips her underwear out from under her skirt and down her legs. She kicks them to the side.

“Oh god,” Sam groans when Dean lifts Jess off of the floor, arms braced under her ass, holding her up. Her legs wrap around his waist, and she rolls her hips, tilts her head to the side so Sam gets a perfect view of their mouths.

Dean pulls back with a wet sound. “And again, I reiterate - _damn.”_

“You’re not so bad yourself.” Jess glances over at Sam with a smug look that makes him shiver, and his open jeans feel far too tight. “I think Sam’s feeling a little left out.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Dean drawls. Having the full weight of their attention sends a frisson of heat racing down Sam’s spine.

“Could you maybe stop talking about me like I’m not here?” Sam says, a token protest.

Jess smirks. “Like it doesn’t get you hot.”

“Shut up,” Sam mutters, flush creeping down his neck.

“Oh, so you like being told what to do,” Dean teases, swaggering across the room.

Sam swallows hard. “Dean--”

“You want me to kiss you, Sammy? Or is there something else you want?”

Sam can’t quite bite back a moan, though god, does he try.

Dean chuckles. “That it, Sammy? Want me to fuck you?”

Yes, Sam thinks, oh god, yes. “Maybe I want to fuck you.”

“If anyone is the bossy bottom in this relationship, it's you.” He slaps Sam’s ass.

“ _You’re_ bossy,” Sam says, grinning, “and short.”

“All right, that does it.” Dean shoves his jeans and boxers down his legs, all thoughts of seduction flying out the window in the face of his irritating little brother. “We’ll do this fair and square. Roshambo, brother.”

“Oh my god,” Jess says, voice losing its flirtatious edge. “You are not doing rock, paper, scissors to decide who takes it up the ass.”

“Yes, yes we are.” Dean kneels on the bed, holding out a palm. “Come on, Sammy. Read ‘em and weep.”

“Really?” Jess says, torn between amusement and disbelief as Sam sits on the edge of the edge of the bed, copying the motion.

“On three,” Sam says, knowing Dean will throw scissors, the way he always does.

“One--“

Sam’s hand clenches.

“Two--“

His fingers twitch as if to make a fist.

“Three!”

Dean, predictably, throws scissors.

Sam though--

Dean blinks at the flat planes of Sam’s hand pressed against his palm. He snips at the paper with his fingers.

“Holy shit,” he says, voice faint, then laughs maniacally, throwing up his arms.

“You two are ridiculous,” Jess says, rolling her eyes, but her lips twitch like she’s fighting a grin. 

Sam tugs Dean down onto the bed by his shoulder, rolls until his brother is lying on top of him, pressed down the length of his body.

“See? I knew you liked being on the bottom,” Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes, gripping the back of his neck and pulling him down for a bruising kiss. Dean yanks at Sam’s pants and boxers until he can drag them off of his hips, tossing them over the side of the bed. He slides back up Sam’s body and rolls his hips, brushing their dicks together, both of them moaning into each other’s mouths. Molten heat floods Sam’s veins, making him ache with want.

“Jess,” he manages to choke out, but she’s one step ahead of them, tossing the blue bottle of the lube she prefers onto the bed.

“Lube?” Dean grins, sitting back on his heels, ass keeping Sam’s legs pinned. “Sammy, you sly dog.”

“First of all, girls need lube, too,” Jess says, sliding her skirt off and creeping up onto the bed at Sam’s side. She drags a hand down his chest, fingers curling over a nipple, making his hips buck.

Dean smirks. “Noted.”

“Second, what makes you think Sam’s the only one who likes someone playing with his ass?”

Dean freezes; Sam can almost see the images flashing across Dean’s brain, quick as the pages of a flipbook. 

“Oh god,” Dean says, words mangled as they leave his throat. He grips tight at the base of his dick.

“I think you broke him,” Sam says, tilting his head to look at Jess, who shrugs a shoulder, a smug smile pulling at her mouth.

“Not broken, just -- rebooting.” Dean pauses, eyes turned towards the ceiling before he shakes his head, planting his hands on Sam’s chest. “Okay, I’m good.”

“Circuits all back online?” Sam says dryly.

“Oh, Johnny 5 is most definitely alive.” He wiggles his eyebrows as he reaches for the bottle of lube, squeezing some onto his fingers, and Sam can’t help but bark a laugh, pushing himself up on his elbows.

“Did you just quote Short Circuit at me? In _bed?”_

“You say this like you’re surprised,” Dean says, just before he pushes Sam’s legs open wider and circles his hole with a finger, easing it inside, slow, so slow, Sam feels every inch of him. His dick jumps; he collapses onto his back with his hands fisting in the sheets.

“Talk about a malfunction,” Jess drawls, earning a startled laugh out of Dean.

“I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

“God, I hate you both,” Sam says, turning his face into his arm when Dean pulls out, adds another finger, slow as molasses. 

“Liar,” Dean says, and Sam shudders when he crooks his fingers, twisting them in either direction. Sam squirms at the sensation, uncomfortable and hot but not in any pain. Dean’s forehead creases, same way it does when he’s trying to shoot a difficult target.

“Like this.” Jess slides down the bed, bends Sam’s right leg at the knee, and sucks a finger into her mouth. Dean’s eyes go wide as she gets her skin slick with spit, sliding down alongside Dean until the tip of her finger breaches Sam.

He feels when Jess presses her finger against Dean’s, crooking both so Sam’s body lights up like a ball of raw nerve endings. He cries out, back arching off of the bed.

“ _There_ we go,” Jess says, pressing a kiss to the inside of his thigh.

“Holy fucking shit,” Dean croaks, drawing a laugh out of Jess. She leans over, curling her finger inside Sam as she gives Dean an open-mouthed kiss. Sam lets out a ragged moan. 

Dean’s free hand cups one of her breasts, rolls his thumb over her nipple, and she sighs into his mouth. She gives his cock one slow, twisting jerk.

Dean’s hips twitch like he’s been attached to a live wire. He pulls away with a wet sound. “Baby, you are cruel.”

“You know you love it.” She glances up at Sam, winks, whispers something in Dean’s ear that Sam can’t make out. 

Dean chuckles, low and dark. “Dirty girl.”

She nips at his neck with her teeth. “Like it doesn’t make you hot.”

“Never said that.”

Jess pulls out slowly, lets Dean take over. She slithers up the bed until Sam can wrap a hand in her hair, dragging her down to his mouth. Dean adds another finger and the wrong bite of pain creeps up his spine.

“You want me to stop?” Dean asks when Sam tenses.

“No,” Sam croaks; nothing sounds like a worse idea. “Just go slow.”

Dean nods, leans down to press a soft, sweet kiss to Sam’s hip, over the mark left from Jess. Sam shivers; Jess kisses the vulnerable underside of Sam’s jaw, drags her mouth down his neck, tongue darting out against his skin. She reaches down to roll his balls in her palm. Pain slowly turns to pressure, then pleasure, lighting him up from the inside out.

“I’m good,” Sam pants, when Dean curls his fingers the way Jess showed him and Sam’s hips jack-knife off of the bed. “I’m good, come on.”

“Are you sure?”

Sam’s never been more sure of anything in his life. “Yeah.”

Dean pulls his fingers out, nudging Sam with his other hand until he turns onto his stomach. His limbs shake, enough that Jess needs to help him up to his hands and knees.

Sam closes his eyes, focuses his other senses: the snick of a cap, the wet sucking sound of Dean slicking up his cock, the scratch of his hand against fabric as he wipes his fingers off on the sheets, the sharp pinch of his fingers as he grips Sam’s waist, lines himself up.

Dean presses in slowly. All thought ceases, the world narrowing down to Dean’s hand squeezing tight to Sam’s hip, Dean’s dick in his ass, _Dean, Dean, Dean,_ inside him, all around.

“God,” Sam gasps, throwing out a hand that Jess catches. He anchors himself with her fingers, drops his head while he adjusts, pressure fading into the right bite of pain. He hasn’t done this since Brady, long before he and Jess ever got together.

Dean doesn’t move, stays plastered against his back, breath panting between his shoulder blades. Eventually, he hauls Sam up and into his lap, and the change in angle lights up every nerve in Sam’s body. Sam drops his head back, still holding tight to Jess’ hand as he tries to catch his breath.

Jess tilts Sam’s head down and gives him a kiss. “You good?”

Sam shudders when Dean shifts, nods.

“Good,” Jess says, lets go of his hand, and uses his shoulders to swing her legs over his thighs.

 _“Fuck,”_ Sam says harshly, “Oh fuck.”

“That’s the idea,” Jess says before sinking down.

Sam reaches back so he can grip Dean’s shoulder, holds tight to Jess’ hip, sensory overloaded. He feels like he’s going to shake apart, like they’re the only things keeping him from blowing away in the wind, too much, too much, yet nowhere near enough. He wants them to crawl so far inside him that they can’t ever leave.

They already have.

“You okay?” Dean asks, gravel in his throat. 

Sam nods, eyes rolling back in his head when Jess rocks her hips and Dean begins to move. There is literally nothing he can do but just kneel there and take it, letting them rock his body between them, puppeteers pulling his strings. 

He presses his mouth to Jess’ shoulder, eyes squeezed shut, broken, open-mouthed pants that blow across her skin.

“Wait,” Jess says, reaching around Sam to grip Dean’s hip.

Dean groans, but stills his hips. “You’re killin’ me here.”

“You’ll survive,” she drawls. 

“But my dick won’t,” Dean mutters. Jess ignores him in favor of dragging a gentle hand through Sam’s sweat-soaked hair, scratching at his scalp when her nails get caught in the tangles.

“Hey,” Jess whispers, gripping the back of his neck. “You still with us?”

Sam nods. He inhales, tasting the salt on her skin, sex heavy and heady on the air. “Yeah. Just don’t--” 

“Don’t what?” Dean asks, voice harsh like he’s barely hanging on.

 _Leave._ Sam swallows; lifts his head until he can look Dean in the eye. “Don’t stop.”

Dean lets out a sound the bastard child of a whimper and a moan, twists Sam’s head around until he can press a bruising kiss to his lips.

“Fucking hell, Sammy,” Dean rasps, clears his throat. “You heard the man,” he says to Jess. She chuckles, but she drags herself up, slow, slow, slower still, sliding down in one smooth, steady glide. Dean moves just as slowly, twitching his hips until Sam keens, stars bursting behind his eyelids. 

“God,” Jess says, leaning forward to press their lips together, more a meeting of mouths than an actual kiss. “That’s it. Just let go.”

He groans into her mouth, a litany of their names, _Dean, Jess, Dean, Jess,_ one bleeding into the other so he has no idea where one name ends and the other begins. The need to come builds and builds and builds, a cresting wave that batters the shore but refuses to break. He’s wound up so tight, he can’t let go.

“Come on, baby,” Jess whispers in his ear, while Dean scrapes his teeth over his neck. “Come for us.”

Sam’s orgasm shudders through him. Dean thrusts into him once, twice, before he comes with a jagged moan, chest pressed against Sam’s back, the back of his hand brushing against Sam’s stomach as he tries to reach around to circle Jess’ clit. Jess lets out an annoyed grunt and bats Dean’s hand away.

Sam lifts shaky, uncoordinated fingers exactly the way he knows gets her off the fastest - firm, tight circles, quick, pinching flicks. Jess grips his wrist, rolls her hips against his hand and comes with a gasp.

The three of them still, panting and breathing against each other, slick with sweat and come. Dean manages to find his feet first, pulling out and leaving Sam feeling empty and bereft and cold.

Jess clenches down around his oversensitive cock, and he groans.

“Sorry,” she says, levering off of him. Sam collapses onto the bed face-first. Dean murmurs something to Jess, but Sam lets their voices fade to background noise. Someone wipes a wet towel over the back of his thighs and over his ass, the calluses on his hips as that someone rolls him over telling him its Dean. He cleans the mess between his legs, tossing the towel in the general direction of the bathroom before crawling into bed.

Dean wraps his arm around Sam, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. Jess curls against his chest, throwing her leg over his. 

“I could have helped you with that, you know,” Dean says, in a way that’s half joking, half serious, and all bluster.

Jess reaches over to pat him on the hip. “Next time,” she promises, and Sam falls asleep with a smile on his face.

\--

Sam wakes as the sun is rising, early morning light filtering through the curtains, warm where it kisses his skin. 

He stretches a little, wiggling his toes.

“‘S too early, Sammy,” Dean mutters against his neck. Sam hums, presses a kiss to Jess’ hair, and goes back to sleep.

He wakes a second time with Dean’s mouth around his cock.

Sam lets out a garbled moan, squinting his eyes open. Dean pulls off with a pop, mischievous and filthy all wrapped up in one grin.

“Morning, sunshine,” Jess says against his ear, kissing his cheek.

“De--” He says, still disoriented and half-asleep, “Jess, wha--”

“Wanted you to start the day off right,” Dean says, and Sam can’t help but roll his eyes, fondness making his chest feel too tight.

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Do you want me to stop?”

Sam stills, eyes going wide at the challenge. “No,” Sam croaks, and Dean ducks his head, sucking the head of Sam’s cock into his mouth, arm holding Sam’s hips against the mattress when his back arches up.

“Rub your tongue along the underside,” Jess whispers, “He likes that.”

Dean does; Sam almost swallows his tongue as Jess continues to offer directions, voice a rumbling purr in Sam’s ear as she flicks a nail against one of his nipples. Dean takes him apart with surgical precision as Jess tells him exactly what Sam likes the most, how to keep him right on the edge without going over. Dean scratches at his thigh, and Sam scrabbles at the sheets, cursing up a blue streak before he finally breaks down and starts to beg.

When he finally comes, it feels like a religious experience.

He falls back to the bed, panting into one of the pillows. 

Dean wipes his mouth and looks up from where he’s lying between Sam’s legs with a leer. “Shoulda known you were a kinky little shit.”

Sam rolls his eyes, flushing from head to foot.

Jess sits up and leans forward, chin resting on her knees. "You're fucking your brother and _this_ is what makes you blush?" 

Sam reddens further; Dean grins. "Aw, look at him. He's all embarrassed." 

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think he likes it." 

"You both suck," Sam mutters, stomping off to the bathroom on legs made of jello.

“ _Yeah,_ I do,” they say in unison, which only makes them laugh harder.

They don’t take a job for weeks, spending the time driving from place to place, Jess with her bare feet up on the dash or the back of the bench seat, Dean singing off-key to Zeppelin and Bad Company. They try to find license plates from all fifty states, Sam keeping a tally in the back of a beaten up notebook, and play a game of Never Have I Ever that ends with Dean and Jess making out in the back seat while Sam tries not to run them off of the road. They travel back to California, fuck under the boardwalk on a beach in Santa Cruz, then camp in the Sierra Nevada mountains where they rent a cabin in the woods on someone else’s dime.

Jess finds Sam alone in front of the cabin, staring up at the sky as if the stars have all the answers to questions he has no idea how to ask.

She places a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s the middle of the night, Sam. Are you okay?”

Sam shakes his head, listening to the wind in the trees. “I’m just waiting.”

“For what?”

_To wake up and find out this is all a dream. For Castiel to finally appear and tell me just what the hell he’s been playing at. For Lucifer to flay me alive._

“I don’t know,” he says, letting her take his hand and tow him back to bed.


	3. Part III

Beyond the occasional poltergeist or salt-and-burn, the summer months remain quiet, considering the demons that managed to escape the Gate. Dean, Sam, and Jess visit Bobby, help Ellen start rebuilding The Roadhouse, and have more sex than Sam has ever enjoyed in his _life._

The Seven Deadly Sins don’t make it out of the Pit; the door wasn’t open long enough, or maybe they were in too deep. He should be relieved, that some of the highest level demons aren’t walking around topside, wearing a stolen body like a cheap suit.

Instead, he can barely sleep. He spends half his nights staring at the ceiling, chest so tight he can barely breathe, and the other half letting Dean and Jess fuck him into the mattress until he’s so exhausted and loose-limbed, he can’t do anything _but_ sleep. Sam’s pissing in the wind, zero direction to speak of, the future an unknown. All the while, he waits for the other shoe to drop.

And she does.

They’re in Cleveland, chasing a low-level demon through the desolate streets outside of a line of warehouses. The sun burns hot, September heat somehow even more stifling than the South Dakota summer, and sweat drips down Sam’s back, soaking through his t-shirt so the material sticks to his skin.

“On your six!” Dean shouts; the demon flicks her hand and tosses Sam through a window, glass shards digging into his side. Sam rolls over onto his back with a groan.

“Pathetic,” the demon sneers, brown eyes flooding with black. She brushes a piece of glass off of her shoulder. “ _This_ is the Boy King who was supposed to lead us to freedom?”

“He might surprise you,” Ruby says from the opposite end of the room, and the demon spins. Her mouth drops open as her eyes land on the speaker, and Dean and Jess slide to Sam’s side. Of course Ruby still managed to claw her way out of Hell, bitch of a fight or not. 

Emphasis on the bitch.

Dean flips their father’s journal open, paging through for an exorcism.

The demon bares her teeth at Ruby. “You!”

Ruby feints a left jab, right hand bringing her knife up, slicing through the woman’s stomach like butter.

“Me,” Ruby says, watching as the demon’s body falls in a heap to the ground. She turns to look at Sam and Dean, a smile playing at the corner of her lips. 

Jess leans forwards, shielding Sam from her view. “Who are you?”

Ruby shrugs a shoulder, nonchalant as ever. “I’m the girl that just saved your ass.”

Sam’s blood boils. The threat of the apocalypse looms on the horizon, ominous as a funeral shroud.

He pushes to his feet, shrugging off Dean’s attempt to hold him back, one hand holding tight to the wound at his side. “Hey!”

Ruby turns around, grin plastered on her face, the same grin she wore when Sam unlocked Lucifer’s cage.

Sam’s vision goes red with Lilith’s blood, and he spits out, “Christo.”

Ruby flinches back, black eyes wide. Dean screams his name, but it’s just noise, static. He grabs the knife from Ruby’s hand while she’s frozen and he buries the blade in her stomach. 

Ruby stares at him with eyes as wide as the night he held her arms behind her back so Dean could gut her in the convent. He expected vindication, feeling her breath leave her lungs, watching her body fall to the floor. Instead, his chest rings hollow like an empty room. 

Sam stares at her blood on the blade of the knife, at her body, legs askew, eyes open and lifeless.

“Sam!” Jess screams like she’s been trying to catch his attention for several minutes now. Sam jumps back, stumbling. Her face is colorless in the sickly light filtering through the dirty warehouse windows, eyes wide and so, so blue.

Dean slams the journal shut, passing it off to Jess as he gets to his feet. His knees crack under his weight. “You want to tell me what the fuck that was all about?” 

Sam stares at the floor, wiping the blade on the leg of his jeans without answering Dean’s question.

“Hey!” Dean shoves him in the shoulder. Sam hisses, hand coming up to rest over his still-bleeding ribs. Dean shoves his hand away so he can lift Sam’s shirt, prodding at the wound with careful fingers to inspect the damage. 

“Since when do you shoot first and ask questions later?” he asks, ripping off the hem of Sam’s shirt to press against his ribs.

“She was a demon,” Sam says, exasperated and exhausted down to his very core.

“And you knew this... how?” Jess asks, folding her arms, every inch as startled as Dean.

 _I could see her real face,_ Sam thinks, and _what the hell was I thinking,_ and in a voice that sounds exactly like Dean, _damn Sam, you kissed_ that?

“I suspected, alright?” Sam snaps. He tempers his voice with a sigh when Jess’ eyes go even wider, Dean pressing down just this side of too hard. “Look, I checked first. I just… had a gut feeling and I went with it. That’s all.”

“That’s _all?”_ Dean stares at him like he has two heads and sprouted a tail. “You could have exorcized her! _We should try and save everybody until we can’t,_ isn’t that what you always tell me?”

Sam clenches his jaw, hand twisting into a fist around the knife handle, far too light for all the blood it’s shed. His. Ruby’s. Dean’s. The whole goddamn world. 

Sam shoves the knife into the inner pocket of his jacket, taking several deep breaths to steady himself, to not give into the panic thumping like a bass solo through his entire body.

Dean shakes his head in the face of Sam’s silence. “Sure, whatever, let’s just get out of here before the cops show up.”

Jess bandages Sam’s wounds in the back of the Impala while Dean turns the stereo up loud. They stop for food and gas, turning into the lot of a motel further down the turnpike.

Dean asks for the usual two queens, but he piles in on Sam’s left side, nudging him in the hip. Sam blinks.

“Hey,” Jess asks softly while Sam lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. She presses a hand to his shoulder. “You okay?”

“Sammy?” Dean prods when he doesn’t speak. He hasn’t said much of anything these past few hours.

Sam rolls over on top of Jess rather than answer, kisses her until there’s nothing left but the scent and feel of her skin, Dean’s callused hands against his hips, teeth sharp as they dig into his shoulder. Jess clings to his shoulders with her nails, like if she doesn’t hold on tight, he’ll float away.

Jess hitches her leg up over Sam’s hip, using her foot to nudge him forwards. Sam might be the one on top, but she’s the one with the reins, driving Sam on at a fevered pace. Dean ruts against Sam’s back, biting another bruise into Sam’s shoulder. Sam circles Jess’ clit with hard, vicious circles, face pressed against her neck when she cries out.

The sex is raw, rough, almost impersonal, except for the marks they leave along his skin, marking him as theirs. The thought makes Sam come, sudden and fast enough to steal his breath. Dean groans, his come spattering across Sam’s back. They collapse onto the bed, each of them in their own space.

Sam rolls into Dean, face pressed against his chest.

“I’m worried about him, Dean,” Sam hears Jess say after, when she thinks he’s sleeping. “I feel like something’s wrong. Like he’s hiding something.”

“What?” Dean scoffs. “Come on, Jess--”

“Dean.” Jess shifts against the sheets. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Yeah,” Dean says softly, after a pause. “Me too.”

Sam’s breath catches in his throat, and he squeezes Dean’s arm, holds Jess tighter.

In the days that follow, they watch Sam like a hawk. He can’t take one step without one of them asking where he’s going. It’s Ruby and the angels all over again, something wrong, though they can’t put their fingers on _what._ His entire plan is unraveling before his eyes like a spool of loosely-wound thread.

But this time, the walls of his deception don’t slowly come tumbling down - they explode into pieces so small, Sam doesn’t know if there’s anything left in the wreckage to glue back together.

\--

Bobby finds the case in a newspaper and throws the article their way - family moved out of a house just outside of Sioux Falls with no warning - just up and left one day with a couple of suitcases of their most important belongings and the clothes on their back. A neighbor mentions flashing lights in the house, crashing sounds and screaming at all hours of the night, how the little girl showed up to school with bruises and insisted she was hurt by “a man who lives in her attic,” not either of her parents.

They find the culprit easily - suicide in the attic thirty years ago. The body was cremated, but the rope he used to hang himself remained in a police lock-up in a building closed for renovations.

It should be an easy job, salt and burn, in and out in less than a day. Sam slips into the building through a window in the basement, Dean at his front and Jess at his back. He’s got a shotgun full of rock salt in one hand and a flashlight in the other as he scans the shelves for the correct case number. 

Sam spots the box across the aisle and gets thrown back into the shelves, an invisible force squeezing his windpipe.

What the fuck is it with ghosts and his neck?

Spots dance across his vision as the ghost comes into view.

A ghost with black eyes.

“Like the Spanish Inquisition, demons,” says a voice that makes Sam’s blood run cold. “No one ever expects us.” Alastair paces out of the shadows, grin wide and grim on his pale face. “You know, you’re a hard man to find, Sammy. Friends in high places.” He winks. “Knew you’d turn up eventually though. Just had to apply the right amount of leverage.”

“It wasn’t a ghost attacking those people,” Sam says, while Dean slips out of the shadows on silent feet. Sam tries to tell him to go back with nothing but his mind, to no avail.

“Not even a little. But a poor, defenseless family being attacked by something that goes bump in the night? Knew you Winchesters would eat that up with a spoon. You lookin’ for this?” 

Alastair holds up Ruby’s knife without turning around, and Dean freezes. “Your gawky human friend gave it to me.” He points across the room with the blade of the knife, where another demon is holding Jess hostage, arms a tight band around her chest. She fights against the hold, grunts as she tries to move her arms and legs.

Alastair grips the handle of the knife and brings the blade down in an arc, stabbing himself in the chest. He grins, eyes turning milky white, and Dean’s breath catches in his throat like all of the air’s been sucked out of the room.

He yanks the knife out of his chest and flings it to the side. “You're gonna have to try a whole lot harder than that, son.” 

Alastair turns to Sam with a sickening grin across his face. Sam jumps when he slowly applauds, the sound far too loud in the otherwise silent room.

“Heard about what you did to Ruby. I thought such cold-blooded murder was beneath the great Winchesters. I’m impressed.”

“I’m happy for you,” Dean snarks, and all Sam can envision is his brother tied down to the rack, at the other end of Alastair’s knife. “Because I spend all my time wondering how demons get their jollies.”

“You should. If you ever want to understand Sam.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Dean snarls, and Jess says his name in a rasp; the arms around her tighten.

“Shhh, little girl. The adults are trying to have a conversation.” Alastair turns back to Dean with a smirk on his lips. “Come, Dean, even you must wonder if something is wrong with Sam. If Azazel sunk his dirty little fingers so far into his melon that now baby brother’s brain is broken.”

Dean tries to rush forward, but he doesn’t even move a foot before Alastair tosses him to the floor across the room. He smacks against the hardwood with a groan, nose bleeding when he lifts his head.

“A charge? So simple, so-- pedestrian.” He shudders. “You know the problem with your generation? Instant gratification. It's all now, now, now. No patience, no craftsmanship. Let's take our time. Relish the moment.” He crosses the room, moving towards Jess. “Allow me to give you a demonstration.”

He slices the knife across Jess’ throat, hard enough to draw blood.

“No!” Sam flings out his hand, old yet familiar instincts rising to the fore. Alastair goes flying out from in front of Jess. The other demon rushes across the warehouse, but Sam flicks his wrist, sending him tumbling into the wall.

“You wait your turn,” he says, cold as ice, even while raw power floods his veins, burning him from the inside out. 

Alastair’s eyes widen as he stares at Sam as if he can’t quite believe his eyes. Then he starts laughing, loud, baying rasps of laughter that remind Sam of hellhounds. Sam squeezes his fingers into a fist, thinking _pain, pain, pain,_ like the rough drag of a hot scalpel against flesh. Alastair screams as he burns from the inside out. His body tips over, nothing more than an empty, smoking husk.

Sam kills the other demon with nothing but a stray thought, easy as breathing. 

Like flipping a switch.

The demon flickers, host’s mouth opening on a silent scream. His body falls to the floor. Sam drops his hand, heart steady beyond the surge of adrenaline.

Ruby was right: he didn’t need the feather after all.

Dean stares at the bodies with wide eyes, terrified gaze turning to Sam. 

Sam turns to Jess, but Dean slides in front of her with no fanfare, cutting Sam off. He raises his gun, hand shaking only slightly.

"What are you?"

Sam’s heart sinks through the floor. _You’re a monster, Sam,_ runs through his head over and over again on a loop. He swallows past the pain clawing through his chest.

"Dean, it's me--"

"Like hell,” Dean snaps. “You are _not_ my brother." 

_You're not you anymore. And there’s no going back._

“Dean,” Jess says, getting to her feet. She stumbles, and Sam lurches forwards, hand barely brushing her arm before Dean shoves him away. 

“You stay the hell away from her!” Dean snarls; Sam didn’t think his brother seeing him as a monster could hurt any worse than it did when he locked Sam in Bobby’s panic room all alone.

He was wrong, he thinks, looking at Jess’ shaking hands and gaunt face. God, was he wrong. 

“Dean, I swear, it's me. It's just my powers, they...”

The click of the gun being cocked sounds deafening. “You take one more step,” Dean says with a coldness Sam doesn’t remember, not even from his time in the panic room, “and I swear to god, I will shoot you.”

“Then shoot me.”

Jess inhales, sharp and swift.

Sam gets close enough that he can take the barrel of the gun, pressing it up against his chest. “If you really think I’m a monster-- go ahead and kill me.”

Long, painful minutes of silence pass. Sam stares at Dean. Dean stares at Sam.

Dean flicks the safety back on but doesn’t lower the gun. “Jess, go to the car and get the rope outta the trunk.”

“Dean, I don’t think--”

Dean looks away from Sam for a fleeting moment, face a riot of anger and confusion, thin lips, narrow eyes, free hand balled into a fist. Jess goes without another word.

 _This is exactly how you act when you’re terrified,_ Sam told him, once upon a time. Some things don’t change.

Jess returns with a length of rope, fraying at the edges but still functional.

“Hands,” Dean says, and Sam sighs, holding his arms out without comment so Jess can wind the rope around his wrists, knots neat and tight, incapable of being slipped without a sharp edge. Dean tugs the knots even tighter, loosening them just enough that Sam’s hands don’t go numb.

“Walk,” he says, prodding Sam forward at the center of his lower back. Sam marches across the building, eyes falling to the bodies on the floor, two human men he killed without thought or remorse. Killing the demons was his intention, their bodies just vessels, tossed aside as nothing but collateral damage.

An acceptable loss.

Sam turns his face away and swallows down the bile that rises, burning and viscous in his throat. He stares down at his shoes as he walks down the pathway to the Impala, focusing on putting one step in front of the other - no more, no less.

Dean reaches out to tug the door open. “Get in,” he grunts, gesturing into the dark, empty back seat with the barrel of his gun. 

Sam sighs and slides in. Dean shuts the door, hands his gun off to Jess, and puts pedal to the metal, kicking up road as he speeds down the street.

Sam doesn’t bother to ask where they’re going. He looks out the window, ignoring Jess’ attempts to catch his eye through the rear-view mirror. Orange streetlights blur as they pass, homes turning to woods and back to dirt roads until they pass beneath the Singer Salvage sign. 

Dean parks right outside of the back door.

“Wait here,” he orders, hinges creaking as he pushes the door open, waiting for Jess to follow. Sam watches as they pass through the door, past the kitchen windows and out of sight.

Sam sighs and tilts his head back, trying and failing to put the look of pure terror on his brother’s face out of his brain. He sits alone out there for so long, he wonders if they’re going to keep him there all night. He considers lying down and just trying to sleep when the door finally opens. Jess walks across the porch and down the stairs. Ellen follows behind her with a gun pointed at the ground but ready to go at a moment’s notice.

Jess tugs the door open and steps to the side.

“Christo,” Ellen says, and Sam gives her a small smile. “Just checkin’.”

“No, I get it. I would do the same.”

“You did,” she says dryly, and Sam huffs a laugh. He stands slowly, Jess helping him to his feet when he overcompensates for his tied hands and almost faceplants into the dirt.

“Graceful as ever, ain’tcha?” Ellen says, trying to bring some levity to the situation.

He enters the study and sees the chair beneath the Devil’s Trap, Bobby and Dean holding a gun, eerily reminiscent of what little he remembers from his time possessed by Meg.

“Sit,” Bobby says, angling his rifle at the chair. Sam does so without comment. Dean unties his hands, letting Sam flex his fingers and get the blood flowing. He motions for Sam to take off his jacket before he ties his wrists back to the chair.

“Is that really necessary?” Jess asks, arms folded tight across her chest.

“Yes,” Dean barks, and Sam flinches. _Blood sucking freak. Monster._

Bobby splashes him with holy water without warning. Sam splutters, shaking his wet hair out of his face, soaking the front of his shirt.

“Really?” Sam snaps. 

“Oh quit your bellyaching,” Bobby says, passing off several knives to Ellen. She rolls up his sleeves, tells Sam to keep still, and cuts his left forearm with the blades. 

“Silver?” Sam asks.

“And iron,” she says, gentle as she can be.

When he doesn’t so much as wince, Dean pulls out Ruby’s knife. Sam turns his face away.

“Scared?”

“Dean!” Bobby barks out, handing the knife to Ellen, who bends over his other arm. To Sam’s surprise, he just bleeds, not the flash-burn of a wounded demon. 

Score one for The Boy With The Demon Blood.

Ellen sighs, stepping back so Jess can press bandages to the wounds to stop the bleeding. “Dean, I think you need to face facts - it’s Sam. There’s no one else in there.”

“That’s not exactly accurate,” Sam says, voice a broken almost-whisper; the room goes so quiet, Sam could hear a proverbial pin drop.

Sam closes his eyes, counts to ten, doesn’t bother trying to calm his racing heart. He stares at Dean, takes a deep breath. Starts talking. About Lilith, Lucifer, the angels, the apocalypse. How Dean died to save his brother, how Sam died to save Dean. 

How he woke up in another Sam’s body, in a world so much like but so different from his own. 

“Sometimes, I still have to convince myself this isn’t hell,” Sam says in closing. “Isn't a dream.”

The tension in the room is so thick, Sam could cut it with a knife; Ellen, Bobby, and Jess stare at each other. Sam stares down at his knees.

Dean inhales sharply. “You’re--”

“I’m not crazy,” Sam snaps, lifting his head with a glare before his brother can get another word out.

Dean rolls his eyes so hard, his entire body moves with the force of it. Lucifer and angels are so far outside this Dean’s realm of possibility, Sam almost can’t blame him for calling bullshit. Almost. “Yeah? Prove it.”

“How?” Bobby shakes his head. “Dean, I’m as hesitant to believe this as you are. But short of taking a trip through his brain, there ain’t no way he _can_ prove it.”

“Do it,” Sam says, before he can second guess the words coming out of his mouth.

Ellen approaches him from the side, hand shaking where it rests on his arm. “Do what, honey?”

“Take a trip through my brain.”

Dean snorts. 

Bobby slaps him upside the head, ignoring the scowl aimed his way. “How the hell do you plan on pullin’ that off?”

“African Dream Root.”

“Sure, lemme just go out into the garden and pick some,” Bobby drawls, and Sam can’t help but smirk at his grizzly, aggravated tone, the way he says _idjit_ without ever muttering the word aloud. “Where the hell do you expect to get your hands on that?”

Sam purses his lips and eventually just shrugs. “Bela Talbot?”

Dean leans forward, arms folded tightly over his chest. “I’m sorry?”

“Jesus Christ,” Bobby says with a groan, pinching his nose between his fingers.

“Can you get it or not?”

“Yes, I can get it,” Bobby snaps, “for fuck’s sake.” 

“What exactly is African Dream Root?” Jess asks; she keeps throwing glances at Sam, like she isn’t sure whether she wants to kiss him or hold up a crucifix and yell, _Be gone, Satan!_

Sam snorts at his own joke.

“Special herb,” Bobby says, judgemental eyes questioning Sam’s sanity. “Traditionally used to communicate with a person’s ancestors, but it can also be used to take a sojourn through someone’s brainpan.” Bobby walks over to Sam, finally putting down his gun. “Sam. You sure about this?”

 _Not even a little._ “Yes.”

“You do this kid, there ain’t no turnin’ back. And someone rootin’ around in your head like that while you’re still awake? It’ll hurt like the devil.”

Sam can’t help but bark a laugh at his choice of words. “Been expecting that the whole time.” Sam looks at Dean, who gazes past Sam’s shoulder at the wall. “Do it.”

“Sam--“

“You suspect me, too,” Sam says, cutting off any further attempts to change his mind. “Do it.”

\--

Bobby locks Sam in the room upstairs overnight. 

“Just a precaution,” Bobby says after waiting for him outside of the bathroom.

Sam shrugs a shoulder, wiping his hands on a towel. “I’d rather be locked up here than down in the panic room.”

“How the hell did you--” Sam gives Bobby a wry smile. Bobby kicks him in the ass. “Don’t be a wise ass.”

“Are you kidding, Bobby?” Jess says, slowly making her way up the stairs. “Wiseass is his default setting.” Sam’s mouth waters at the smell of burgers wafting from the plate she holds in her hands. “Thought you might want some food.”

“When don’t he want food?” Jess’ laughter sounds strained around the edges. Bobby edges around Sam, giving him a wide berth. His footsteps are heavy on the stairs as he makes his way back down.

Sam gives Jess a half smile she doesn’t quite return as she follows him into the spare bedroom the three of them usually share. The bed is going to be cold without them.

Shaking himself, Sam settles on the edge of the mattress. “Thanks,” he says, taking the plate from her hands. 

“No problem.”

“Jess.” Jess pauses as she backs out the door. “Do you believe me?”

Jess’ throat works as she swallows, biting her lip. She wrings her hands together. “I don’t know what to believe,” she whispers, but to Sam, it sounds like a scream.

The door shuts behind her, lock twisted into place from the outside. Sam bends over with his head in his hands.

“Cas,” he says, quiet, pleading, “I don’t know why you brought me here, but I-- I don’t know what to do. If you can hear this-- I could really use some help right about now.”

No one answers. It’s just as well.

“Who are you talking to?”

Sam’s head snaps up; Dean stands in the doorway, face a blank mask.

“Myself. Apparently.” He clears his throat. “What are you-- I mean, did you--”

“Was it all an act?”

Sam blinks; for the first time in ages, he can’t follow his brother’s train of thought. The thought makes his heart hurt. “I’m sorry?”

Dean paces across the floor in front of the door, tossing the key to the room between his palms. “The whole--” He gestures up and down in the air. “Thing. The sex, saying how much you cared. Was it all an act?”

Sam’s blood runs cold, goosebumps appearing on his arms. “Of course not.”

“I mean, I must have been blinded by my dick, because you played me like a fiddle,” Dean continues like Sam hasn’t said a word. “And that’s fine. Use me as a distraction all you want, but what about Jess? Did you even care about what this would do to her?”

“Dean, I didn’t just fuck you as a distraction.” Sam pushes himself to his feet. “Jesus. You _or_ Jess.”

“Yeah well, from where I’m standing, that’s sure as shit what it seems like.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” Sam snaps. 

Dean barks a laugh.

“And why the hell should I believe a word that comes out of your mouth?”

“Because I’m your brother,” Sam says, low and unsure.

“You heard me before - prove it. Because you sure as fuck aren’t acting like it.”

The door slams shut, lock clicking into place. Sam buries his face back in his hands.

\--

Sam stays in his room for the next two days, let out periodically to go to the bathroom or take a shower. Ellen brings him food and a couple of bottles of water before brandishing a bottle of whiskey.

“Stole it from the old man,” Ellen says, handing him a glass. “Let’s drink it before he realizes it's gone.”

Sam huffs a laugh as she opens the bottle and pours him several fingers worth. “So, how’s Jo?”

“She’s good. Helping Jim Murphy with a case.” She pours herself a glass before putting the bottle on the nightstand. “I made her promise she’d be careful about what sorts of hunts she takes, after what happened with Yellow Eyes.”

Sam nods, sipping at his whiskey.

Ellen pushes her glass to the side, still full. “Can I ask you something?”

“I’m an open book,” Sam says around the rim of the glass.

"What happens? If this-- Lilith does appear and jump-start the apocalypse some other way that don’t involve either of you boys dying-- what happens?”

Sam lowers the glass and looks out the window. Dawn crests the horizon, painting the sky in shades of yellow and orange. The light bounces off of the junkers and pieces of metal in the yard, blinding Sam, forcing him to look away.

He downs his glass in one go, holding it out for a refill. Ellen does without comment. "Nothing. Not if I can help it."

"You really think that’s a good idea? Messing with things that shouldn't be within your power to change?"

Sam snorts. Considering God is still playing the absent father, someone needs to pick up the slack who doesn’t have wings, a broken halo, or a death wish for the entire world.

"No, but whatever may happen as a consequence... the alternative is a hell of a lot worse. Trust me."

“Hey,” Jess pokes her head around the doorway. Dean hovers at her back, eyes pinned on the garish, old wallpaper lining the hallway. He’s still wearing the same clothes, wrinkled and stained. “Bobby’s contact just dropped off the Dream Root. Let’s go.”

“Where?” Like he doesn’t already know.

“Panic room,” Dean says; it's the first time his brother has spoken to him in two days.

Sam gulps down the rest of his whiskey before pushing to his feet.

He follows Jess down the stairs, Dean at his back, a line of heat keeping him moving at a steady clip when all he wants to do is run out the front door. Bobby’s already downstairs, standing beside two cots - the only furniture in the room besides a rickety, metal table - and pouring liquid into a glass. 

Sam pauses on the threshold. The door clanging shut echoes in his ears.

“You okay, sweetie?” Ellen asks, dragging a hand down his back; Dean growls at the endearment.

“Yeah,” Sam says, takes a deep breath, and forces his feet to move before freezing a second time. “Wait. I need a knife.”

Ellen pulls one from her belt, handing it over without hesitation. “Sam, what are you doing?” 

Sam drags the knife across his forearm, grimacing as the blade splits his skin. He paints the symbols on the wall from memory.

“Angelic sigil. Keeps any angels from overhearing.” Ellen takes back the knife and hands him a towel that he presses to his arm, stemming the blood flow; the sight of the sigil makes him feel better, safer, even if it no doubt makes him seem even more insane. More dangerous.

“Because that’s not creepy at all,” Bobby says, coming up behind Sam and tugging hair directly from his head. Sam winces, rubbing at his scalp.

Bobby adds Sam’s hair to the glass and stirs; the liquid turns a deep shade of brown. He hands the cup to Dean, who sits down on the other cot.

“Once you’re in his head, you’ll have all the power, Dean. He won’t be able to hide.”

“Good,” Dean says, and swallows it down. He makes a face. “God, is that ass? That tastes like ass.”

“It's called witchcraft, you idjit,” Bobby says; Dean rolls his eyes.

“When will we know if it's working?” Jess asks, just as Dean keels over, head hitting the pillow. Pain shakes through Sam’s skull, a red-hot poker driven straight into his brain. It feels like fire licking through his veins. Like the Cage.

Sam clutches a hand to his head and collapses back. Jess’ panicked shouts fade away.

Images flicker across his brain, living his life backwards, in rapid motion. 

Sam waking up in the hospital, thinking he’s in hell--

Saying yes to Lucifer, fists meeting Dean’s face, _it’s okay Dean, I’ve got him--_

A posh motel room, Dean lying in a flood of broken glass. _You don’t know me, you never did, and you never will. If you walk out that door, don’t you ever come back--_

Trapped in the panic room, Dean calling him a monster, _don’t you say that to me, don’t you dare say that to me--_

Years of memories, one after the other - Dean catching him with demon blood on his mouth, Dean telling him about Alastair, Dean coming back from the dead, Dean dying, Dean making his deal, Dean watching Jake stab Sam in the back, Dean holding him up outside of a hospital room as their father’s heart stops beating, Dean dragging him out of his apartment while his entire life goes up in flames, _Dean, Dean, Dean,_ until finally--

_Dad’s on a hunting trip, and he hasn’t been home in a few days--_

Like yanking a rubber band, Sam snaps back to reality and curls on his side, trying to catch his breath. His head feels like it’s going to explode right out of his skull.

“Sam, Sam, hey.” Jess rushes forwards, crouching down beside the cot with her hand on his shoulder. Dean looks equally worse for wear, eyes squeezed shut, face pale. When he opens his eyes, they’re filled with tears.

“Dean,” Ellen says as Dean throws himself off of the cot; Sam jumps when the door slides open, metal dragging against metal.

Bobby sighs. “I’ll go talk to him,” he says, and Sam shakes his head.

“No, it’s okay. Leave him.”

Ellen sighs, pats Sam on the thigh and heads upstairs, leaving he and Jess alone.

“I don’t get it,” Jess says, carding a hand through Sam’s hair. “Whatever he saw proved you’re telling the truth. Why is he so upset?”

“Because I’m not _his_ Sam.” Sam understands. He does.

He feels the same way.

Jess sighs and sits beside Sam on the cot. She grabs both of his hands, squeezing. “You’re here and you’re alive. Why does that matter?”

“It’s not the same, Jess.” Sam licks his lips. “I’ve spent the last year trying to learn about this Sam.”

“Then let me tell you.”

“In my world, you’re dead,” Sam blurts out; now that he’s talking, he can’t seem to stop, poison leaking out of a festering wound. Jess stills. Stares. “That night -- the fire-- it killed you. I don’t even know how I saved you.”

“You didn’t,” she says after a pause, and Sam tugs his hands away. Jess sighs when he pushes to his feet. The room spins. Sam grips onto the edge of the table to keep himself standing.

“When you came home that night, Yellow Eyes-- Azazel already had me.” The words continue to spill out. Yellow Eyes broke into the house while Sam was on his way back home and pinned her to the ceiling. She heard Sam screaming her name, but everything caught fire, flames licking at the side of her body, and she knew she was dying. 

Dean got Sam out, then rushed back into the building. The ceiling caved in, but somehow, Dean was able to save her - him with several broken ribs and a concussion, her with second and third-degree burns across one side of her body and a slash carved into her stomach, but somehow, against all odds, they survived. Sam wouldn’t leave the hospital, and Dean didn’t make him, ready to put the hunting on pause, rent an apartment, and settle in for the long haul.

So Azazel killed her family instead - her parents, her younger sister. All of them died bloody.

After that Jess had nowhere to go but on the road with Sam and Dean. They taught her the ropes, all about the supernatural, everything John’s journal and Bobby’s library could explain. She already knew how to handle a gun, or at the very least how to hit a target. Dean said she was a liability, Jess said where else do I have to go?

Then, he kissed her, hard and almost violent. “I told him it would never happen again,” she says with a wry smile. “I guess I lied.” 

“Did… this Sam know?”

Jess frowns down at her lap. “I don’t know. I didn’t tell him, but-- I think he figured it out.” She raises an eyebrow. “Has anyone ever told you that you and your brother are hopelessly codependent?”

Sam barks a laugh. “Yeah. Someone might have mentioned it once or twice.”

“We pretended it never happened. Even joked about sexual tension, but then…” Her voice trails off, gaze peering off into the distance, lost in her own head.

“Then…?” Sam coaxes, gentle and undemanding. 

She sighs, hands twisting together in her lap. “Then I watched you and your brother closer. And I realized that the way you and Dean looked at each other… wasn’t normal.”

Sam swallows past the hard, painful lump in his throat.

“Was it like that in your… world, too?”

“It only happened twice,” Sam says quietly. The first time was when they were teenagers, alone in a ramshackle apartment, waiting for their father to come home, a week late. The tension between them over Sam leaving for college finally boiled over into a fistfight that ended with them kissing, hands fisted tight in each other’s clothing.

After that, Dean swore it would never happen again. Sam left for Stanford the next week. 

“It didn’t happen again until right before I said yes to Lucifer.”

 _I’m going to hell anyway,_ Sam said, and Dean shoved him back against the wall.

 _Don’t say that. Don’t you fuckin’ say that._ Every touch, every kiss, was desperate, raw, and aching, salt on a wound that would never heal, only fester and grow.

“Lucifer,” Jess says, repeating the name like the word will make more sense coming out of her own mouth. 

“Jess--” Sam says, stopping when he catches the haunted disappointment lurking behind her eyes. “You don’t trust me either, do you?” Sam asks, quiet, hesitant, a creeping pain behind his ribs where Dean’s mistrust was a sharp dagger through the heart.

“Not because you’re _not the right Sam,_ ” Jess says, almost mocking, raising Sam’s hackles. “But because-- you lied. For almost a year. You could have told us the truth any time, and instead, you used amnesia as a crutch. Used our love for you as a distraction. Made us think everything was fine when you were pulling strings behind the scenes the entire time.” She shakes her head. “I’m just going to need some time.”

“I know,” Sam whispers as her retreating footsteps echo through the basement room.

\--

The days that follow seem just like the days after Sam opened the Cage, on two fronts instead of one. Jess talks to him about nothing more important than the weather. Dean doesn’t speak to him at all. The three of them haunt each other like ghosts in an empty house.

He overhears the tail-end of an argument between Dean and Jess, the two of them standing beside a rusted out Ford pickup in the middle of the yard.

"You need to talk to your brother," Jess is saying, leaning back against the hood of the Ford.

"I don't _need_ to do anything." Dean flips through a couple of metal pieces that Sam has no idea what they're used for before tossing them over his shoulder. "You're one to talk, princess. I don't exactly see you running to talk to him about anything important." 

"You're the one who took a walk through his memories." Dean kicks at a rock on the ground, jaw clenched. "He needs his brother."

Dean kicks against the wheel of the Ford so hard, the entire thing rattles. "He doesn't need me. He made that abundantly clear when he lied to me for almost a year."

Sam slips back into the house undetected, goes directly up to his room, and punches a wall. The wall survives. His knuckles come away bleeding.

He rips off the bottom of his shirt, wrapping it tight around his knuckles. He prays to Castiel, even asks Gabriel for an intervention - something to make all of this make sense. He doesn’t receive a response.

So, Sam goes to find answers on his own. He slips out in the middle of the night, leaves a note on the kitchen table, steals one of Bobby’s junkers, and drives to Kansas.

The streets are quiet this time of night, street lamps and porch lights illuminating the road. Sam drives past their old house, idling next to that godforsaken tree. The house appears quiet - just a house, white shutters and all. Like it was never touched by evil.

Sam thinks about visiting Missouri, of seeing a familiar face, no matter how much she would hand him his ass for knocking on her door in the middle of the night.

Eventually, he heads to Stull.

The rickety old gate sends a chill down his spine, but he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and continues on, walking through overgrown grass and past old headstones, names worn away with age. 

He comes to an abrupt halt at the clearing where the Cage opened up. _We will always end up here_ ; no matter what details are altered, Sam will always end up in the same place. Just maybe not the way the Devil intended.

Sam crouches down, presses his palm to the ground, and closes his eyes, like he could feel the Cage seeping through the cracks in the dirt and grass, through his pores and into his soul.

Footsteps crunch through the grass behind him as he stands, and Sam doesn’t turn around; he’s been listening to his brother’s footsteps his entire life.

“How’d you find me?” Sam asks, staring down at the grass; waiting for the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

“Tracked your phone.” Dean comes to a stop at his side, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. He frowns down at Sam's hand. "What happened?"

"Punched a wall. The wall won." 

Dean huffs and shuffles his feet. He clears his throat. “So is this uh-- is this where it happened?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, hands twisting into fists. The press of phantom fingers against his ankle yanks him down. A cool wind blows through the graveyard. He shudders.

“Guess it makes sense. Gateway to Hell and all.”

Sam doesn’t laugh.

Dean sighs heavily, anxiety coming through in every twitch of his muscles as he moves. “God, Sam. Do you know how crazy this sounds?”

“Believe me, I know.” San finally turns around, facing his brother. “I already let you inside of my head. I wish there was another way to convince you of everything-- Lucifer, the angels--” _That you were never just a distraction, how much I need you, that you could never be anything but my entire world._ “But I can’t.”

Dean exhales, heavy and weary. Like he hears all of the words Sam didn’t say. “I want to. I just-- I don’t know if I can.”

“Believe me?”

Dean shakes his head. “Trust you.”

Sam’s heart plummets like a stone; Dean turns on his heel and walks back towards the gate. Maybe the Devil was right - no matter the outcome, Sam is always going to hurt Dean, will always somehow break his heart, is never going to make up for all of his sins.

 _Same song, different verse,_ Lucifer told him, once upon a time, while wearing Jess’ face.

Maybe this is hell after all.


	4. Part IV

The weeks that follow are as awful and heart-wrenching as the months in between releasing the Devil and putting him back in his cage. When Dean isn’t watching Sam like he expects him to do something stupid, he’s going out drinking, playing pool, or bluffing his way through a game of poker - far away from Sam. It’s Ruby all over again, only this time, Sam has no one to blame for Dean’s mistrust but himself.

Jess tiptoes around both of them like she’s walking on a bed of nails - trying to talk sense into Dean, picking him up from the bars and bringing him home. They rarely sleep in the same bed anymore, and Sam didn’t realize how comforting and warm lying between Dean and Jess made him feel until he didn’t have Dean.

Jess though - Jess is a goddamn goddess among women, consoling and trying to understand Sam, to rebuild the trust lost between them.

They’re lying in bed, Jess facing Sam, flipping through her phone. She sighs, tosses the phone to the side, and pokes him in the hip with her toe. “Sam?”

“Hm?” Sam grunts, already half asleep.

"That hunt in Springfield. At the university. It wasn't just suicides, was it?"

Sam sighs, rolling over onto his side, leaning up on his forearms. "No. It was a Trickster - well-- an archangel impersonating one, technically."

Jess looks at the ceiling, letting that information sink in. "That's why you went off on your own. To confront him."

Sam nods, swallowing his regret. It burns going down. "We have... a history. He made my life a living hell. And then he saved us. Me and Dean. I just... needed to know. If he knew why I was here. How I was here."

"And did he?" Jess asks when Sam doesn't immediately offer up the information.

"He said he did, but -- knowing him, he was yanking my chain." Sam sits up straighter, leaning into Jess' space. "I'm sorry." 

"I know you are, Sam," Jess says, weary as she rubs a hand over her eyes. She doesn't say anything else for so long, Sam assumes she isn't going to.

He sighs, collapses back to the pillows, and closes his eyes. He's dozing off when Jess finally speaks.

“Were there other women? After me?”

Sam’s brain grinds to a halt. He rolls over, wide awake as Jess perches her head on her hand. He glances at her face, but there’s no judgment, no malice. Just genuine curiosity.

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Two of them before-- I mean, we met on a job but-- if things hadn’t worked out the way they did… it could have been something more.” 

“Was one of them Madison?”

Sam’s head snaps up, eyes wide. He can barely splutter the words out, “How-- how did you--“

“I don’t know.” Jess shrugs as much as she can in her position. “Just-- something about the way you looked at her. I didn’t feel threatened or anything but-- you looked like you cared about her. It wasn’t just a job to you, it was… personal.”

“You’re not wrong,” he says, voice breaking. The sound of the gunshot that killed Madison echoes through his head on repeat. “We didn’t get there in time and she didn’t-- we had to--“ 

“Sam.” She puts her hand on his arm. “It’s okay.”

He swallows. Shakes his head. “The only one who lasted was-- was--“

“Ruby,” Jess says softly, one word holding a world of meaning.

“You could see, too,” Sam says, looking down at the sheets. Beyond Dean going back to hell or Sam being stuck in the Cage, there’s nothing he wants less than to give Jess access to that guilt-ridden, unclean piece of himself. They still have a small piece of Dream Root left, enough for one more jaunt around Sam’s brain. “In my head. If you wanted. You deserve it.”

Jess sighs, shifting until she’s lying on her stomach, one arm shoved up under the pillow with her face twisted towards Sam. “I don’t need to. You’ll tell me what I want to know.”

“How will you know I’m not lying?”

She drags a nail gently down the bridge of his nose, tapping the tip with her finger. “Because you feel awful about lying about so much already and will probably spend the next six months castigating yourself over it." Sam blinks. She laughs. "What? You think you were any different before? No matter the incarnation, you’re still Sam.”

Sam huffs under his breath. He isn’t so sure about that. Truth be told, he hasn’t felt like _Sam_ for a long time, long before Dean went to hell; just an imposter in Sam’s body, living Sam’s life, trying to survive any way he could. “Someone should tell Dean.”

“Oh, believe me, I intend to,” Jess says, a hurricane brewing behind her words.

He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair; the last thing they need is Dean and Jess fighting any more than they already have because of him. “I thought you said you didn’t trust me either.”

Jess stares at him the way she used to stare at their Latin textbook, like she’s trying to make sense of words written in some language she’s only just beginning to learn. “Why are you so hung up on this? You make it sound like you deserve punishment.”

“Sometimes I think I do. Ow!” Sam scowls as he rubs at the back of his head, where Jess just reached up and slapped him, hard. “What the hell was that for?”

“Do you really think so little of yourself?” Jess snaps. Sam pauses with a frown.

“No?”

Jess growls, rolling onto her side, facing away from Sam. She yanks the covers up under her arms and violently fluffs her pillow, muttering about _idiot Winchesters_ all the way.

\--

Jess barely talks to him the next morning. She drags Dean out the door, saying she needs to shoot something before she punches someone in the face.

“And your face is just too pretty to be broken,” Jess says, while Dean snorts.

“Sweetheart, you wouldn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell.” He doesn’t ask if Sam wants to come, but that’s fine - Sam could use some peace and quiet without being stared at like he’s about to go on a murdering spree. He doesn’t mind being alone.

_Sure. Keep telling yourself that, Sam._

He spends the time they’re gone digging up demonic omens but finds nothing anywhere near the sort of power that surged when Lilith appeared on the map. There are barely any omens at all.

It’s unnerving.

Sam jumps when a newspaper slaps the table on top of his keyboard. He hadn’t even heard Jess and Dean come in, too engrossed in his research.

“Think I found something,” Dean grunts, barely moving his mouth. He pops open a bottle of beer using the edge of the table and guzzles down half. “Did some reading while your girlfriend made a case of empty beer cans her bitch.”

“Why am I only ever _his girlfriend_ when I do something that annoys you?” Jess asks, sitting down on the bed to toe off her boots and socks. She tosses them to the side, clenching and unclenching her toes against the carpet.

Dean wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Because I said so, princess.”

Sam spins the newspaper around and stills when he sees the headlining story about a man who died in a tragic accident in a small, rural town in Indiana.

“Cicero,” Sam says under his breath.

Jess tugs the paper towards her, frown growing as she continues to read.

“ _Man falls on his own power saw._ ” She looks up at Dean, eyebrows raised. “That’s it? That’s all you have to go on?”

“What?” Dean scratches at his bicep, eyes averted. “It could be something.”

“It could be nothing.”

“It’s something,” Sam says, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He quails under Jess and Dean’s full attention.

Dean tosses back the rest of his beer, flinging the bottle into the garbage, where it smacks against the plastic bottom with a loud _smash. “_ All right then, future boy,” he says, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back against the table with his legs crossed at the ankle. “Tell me what you know.”

Sam sighs, but he gives them a general rundown with as much detail as he remembers - a bunch of accidental deaths in the same housing community that aren’t so accidental, changelings kidnapping kids and feeding off of their mothers--

“Including Lisa Braeden.”

The name means nothing to Jess, who stares blankly between the two of them. Dean’s eyes widen before he can reign in his reaction, jaw tensing even further. He springs into action as soon as the words leave Sam’s mouth, tossing clothes and weapons back into their respective duffels at an almost frantic speed. If this is how Sam looked when he found out about Madison, no wonder Jess was able to deduce something else was going on.

“Pack up,” Dean says, zipping his bag shut with gusto. “We hit the road in five.”

Jess raises an eyebrow as he rushes towards the door. “Where’s the fire?”

“In my pants. Now move it or lose it, daylight’s burnin’.”

She sighs, shoving her feet back into her boots. Sam shuts his computer, placing it in his bag with extra care.

“You mind packing my stuff from the bathroom?” Jess asks, looking at Dean standing by the Impala with narrowed eyes. “Got a bone to pick with your brother.”

Sam snorts. “Good luck,” he says, but he gets up, heading to the bathroom while Jess walks out the door.

“You know, for someone who doesn’t believe Sam is who he says he is, you sure are going hell for leather on nothing but his word.”

Sam freezes, turning to see the door to the motel room still open a crack, leading straight outside to the Impala. He tiptoes over to the door, sliding behind so he can’t be seen.

“Job’s a job, Jess. Don’t matter where the information came from.”

“Uh huh,” she says, folding her arms over her chest. “So who’s Lisa?”

“Shut up.” Dean slams the trunk shut. “And get in the car.”

“No.” Jess cuts him off before he can walk away. “Not until you tell me what this is all about.”

“This is about saving people, Jess, or did you forget that’s what we do?”

“Keep your goddamn attitude to yourself. This isn’t about saving people. This is about saving some _one._ Isn’t it?”

“Yes, alright!”

There’s a long moment of silence, broken only by Dean’s labored breathing.

Jess takes a deep breath and says, “Dean--”

“Just-- get your stuff and get in the car,” Dean says, quiet and pleading. _“Please.”_

Sam slips back into the bathroom, heart pounding in his chest, dread settling in his stomach like lead.

\--

They reach Cicero in the middle of the night. Dean drops Sam and Jess off at a motel then leaves under the guise of “rustling up some grub.” Knowing Dean, he’s going to sit outside of Lisa’s house until someone calls the cops.

Jess pokes Sam in the calf with the toe of her boot as soon as Dean leaves the premises. She flips through the menus on the table beside the window, calling for a couple of plain pizzas before tossing her phone to the side. “Alright, spill.” She starts pulling off her shoes. “You know what this is about. Tell me.”

Sam sighs, dragging a hand through his hair as he collapses onto the opposite bed. “About eight years ago, Dean took a road trip.”

“Five states in five days,” Jess says, giving him a small smile. She kicks her boots to the side so they’re out of the way. “He told me.”

“Not everything. There was a woman. Lisa Braeden. They met at a bar where he stopped to try and make some easy cash at the pool tables.” Sam’s lips twitch into a half-smile. “Turned out, it was more one state, five days. Way he explained, it was the bendiest weekend of his life.” 

_Gumby Girl... does that make me Pokey?_

“I see,” Jess says, half amused. She cocks her head to the side. “Did she know? About what you do?”

“No.” He shrugs. “Only the second time he ever considered telling someone though.”

Jess nods in a way that says she knows about Cassie, that Dean did more than consider telling her about what he did for a living, that it was the reason why he left but also the reason she called him back.

“It wasn’t just a hook-up, was it?” Jess asks, and Sam sighs.

“No.”

“Did you know about her? Before...this?”

“Dean kept a lot close to the chest.” Like the fact that more than anything, all he wanted was a family, something normal, safe. That he was willing to sacrifice all of it for--

“Sam?”

Sam turns from where he’s staring at the ceiling to look at Jess; her eyes bore into his like she’s looking deep down into his soul to see what it’s made of.

_Duct tape and safety pins, probably._

“Did you ever consider telling me the truth before all of this?”

Sam swallows; nods his head. “Every day.”

Jess looks out the window, eyes far away, face a blank page Sam can’t even begin to read.

“Are you still mad at me?” Sam asks softly, and Jess sighs, fingers twitching in her lap.

“Yes.”

“I figured.”

“Because you always think the worst of yourself. That’s the problem, Sam.”

Jess pushes to her feet and crosses between the beds, cups his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. She presses a kiss to the crown of his head, and it feels like forgiveness. “I love you, you know,” she says, and Sam turns his face into her belly, hiding from the world.

“I know.”

Through the rest of the case, Jess remains the glue holding all of his broken pieces together. 

Especially when Dean bonds with Ben as easily as Sam remembers. Not for the first time, Sam wonders if Ben is Dean’s son, regardless of what Lisa tells them otherwise.

Dean watches Lisa; Sam watches Dean; Jess watches all of them, stuck between a rock and a hard place - the last time he was here with Dean, she was long dead.

Awkwardness aside, the case goes off without a hitch. Jess and Sam wait in the car while Dean says goodbye, Ben wrapping himself around Dean and squeezing his waist. Lisa grips his jacket, boosts herself up on her toes, and kisses him on the cheek.

“He really loved her, didn’t he?” Jess asks while Dean closes his eyes, hand soft against Lisa’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Sam whispers as Lisa’s hand falls away from Dean’s jacket. “He does.”

 _“Did,”_ Jess says, hopping into the back seat as Dean returns to the car. They barely get ten miles before Dean pulls into the lot of an open motel.

“I’m gonna go rustle up some grub,” Jess says, leaving Sam and Dean alone in an otherwise silent car.

“You know,” Sam starts, staring down at his knees, “When I-- planned on jumping in the Cage. You promised you would find Lisa and Ben again. Live a normal, apple pie life. I know you wanted that as much as I did. Maybe even more.”

Dean’s hands clench around the steering wheel, teeth grinding together.

“I would understand, if you wanted to get away from this. From-- from me. If you wanted to stay.”

Dean punches him in the mouth, one hard, fast clock. Sam’s head is still spinning when Dean yanks him forwards by his shirt and kisses him so roughly, their teeth knock together. 

He shoves Sam away against the passenger side door. His bottom lip is bleeding.

“Fuck you,” Dean rasps, heading out of the car with a clanging slam of the door.

\--

Jess asks about the bruise when she returns, two boxes of pizza balanced on her palm. She puts the boxes down on the edge of the bed and cups Sam’s cheek in her hand. 

Sam can’t help but glance at the other side of the room, where Dean is lying on his back on the other bed, headphones blasting Zeppelin.

Sam takes a step back, and Jess’ hand slides away. “It's nothing. You want a beer?”

Jess narrows her eyes.

They keep hunting. Sam keeps a desperate, panicked eye out for any demonic omens, researching well into the night and during any spare moments of down time. Dean spends half of his nights drinking, the other half sitting on the hood of the Impala, refusing to talk about anything unrelated to a case. 

Jess isn't fine with any of it but sure, why not pump something evil full of bullets as a form of stress relief? 

Inevitably, she explodes. 

“Listen up, assholes,” she says, slamming the door to the motel room shut so Sam jumps. Dean startles so much, he drops the knife he was sharpening with a curse. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” Dean says, putting the knife down on the table next to the whetstone.

“You!” Jess takes off her jacket, tossing it onto a chair; it falls to the floor. “You are my problem! You and your idiot brother!”

“Hey, what did I do?”

“Depends on how much time you have. Do you want the list in alphabetical or chronological order?” Jess says, seething. She starts throwing her clothes into her bag, zipping around the room as she gathers the rest of her belongings.

Dean gets to his feet. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“You are not my father, Dean Winchester, so you’ll mind your fucking tone.” Jess tries to tug the zipper closed, but her clothes are still half-hanging out. She lets out a frustrated growl. “I got my own room next door. Come find me when you’ve decided to put on your big girl panties and grow the fuck up.”

Jess slings her bag onto her shoulder and storms back out. The door slams shut so hard, it swings back open and hits the wall.

Dean thumbs at the door. “Should we--“

“Let her cool off,” Sam says, shaking his head.

Dean huffs, putting knife and whetstone into their weapon’s bag and sliding off of the bed. “Yeah, whatever, I’m gonna go grab a beer.”

Sam falls asleep waiting for him to come back.

He wakes the next morning as the sun is coming up and Dean is walking through the door. He swears he sees the shadow of wings on the wall. He blinks and they’re gone.

“Y’okay?” Dean asks, voice hoarse from liquor and lack of sleep.

Sam runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Just a nightmare. You look exhausted.”

“You look like a girl,” Dean says, jaw cracking on a yawn. 

Sam smirks. 

“Shut up,” Dean mutters. He throws his jacket to the bed, collapsing down next to it. 

He drags a hand over his face, looks at Sam’s bedspread, and clears his throat.

“Look, I’m, uh…” He rubs at the back of his neck.

Sam can’t help but smile, sitting up and leaning back against the headboard. “Yeah. Me too.”

"I still don't know if I believe you," Dean says quietly, "About the angels and Lucifer and-- all that other crap."

“You’re talking to me,” Sam says, thinks that was where he went wrong, him and _his_ Dean, communication shot to shit somewhere between demon deals, demon blood, and the actual Devil. Maybe as far back as Stanford. Probably even before.

Dean snorts. “That’s the litmus test you’re goin’ with? Us talking?”

“The last time we kept secrets, you died.” He shakes his head when Dean frowns. “You don’t have to believe me. You don’t even have to trust me. Just-- trust me to always have your back.”

“That’s all?” Dean says when Sam doesn’t have anything else to add.

“That’s all. The rest will work itself out.”

Dean nods and clears his throat, not looking at Sam. “Yeah well, I’m gonna go take a shower before you start tryin’ to braid my hair. Why don’t you go wake up Grumpy Mcgrumperson and get me a coffee.”

Sam rolls his eyes, throwing the blankets to the side. “The usual? Two sugars?”

“And as black as my soul.”

Sam huffs a laugh. Dean pauses on his way to the bathroom, hand hovering over Sam’s shoulder before giving him an awkward pat.

Sam shakes his head and pushes to his feet. He tugs on a pair of jeans, doesn’t even bother with shoes as he pads out the door in his socks.

He knocks on Jess’ motel room door. She only opens it as far as the safety chain allows.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, shuffling his feet. “You were right.”

Jess unhooks the safety latch and ushers him inside. She’s wearing one of his t-shirts and a pair of Dean’s boxers, and the sight sends a frisson of heat down his spine.

 _Down boy,_ he tells his dick, _now is not the time._

Jess sits on the edge of her bed and drags a brush through her hair, oblivious to his mental turmoil. “So did you actually talk, or did you just stare at each other longingly while making awkward grunting noises?”

Sam breathes a laugh and sits down on the edge of the other bed. “Little bit of both actually.” 

Jess snorts and shakes her head. 

Sam shrugs a shoulder. “We said what we needed to say. The rest will work itself out.”

Jess hums, not entirely convinced. Sam takes the brush from her hand and tugs her into his lap, leans down and kisses her on the cheek. “Thank you. We owe you one.”

Jess wraps her arms around his shoulders and breathes against his lips, “And I intend to collect.” She presses the barest of kisses to his mouth before using his chest to push off of his lap. “But not right now.”

“Tease,” Sam says with a grin, and Jess blows him a kiss over her shoulder as she sashays over to her bag.

Dean’s attempt at an apology is so adorably, hilariously _Dean_ -he hands Jess a cup of coffee and her favorite blueberry scone as they load up the car, ushers her into the passenger seat, and lets her pick the music. Jess flips through the radio until she finds a country music station, biting her lip against a smile at the pinched lines of Dean’s lips.

“What’s the matter, Dean? Not a fan of honkey tonk?”

“It's fine,” he says, gritting his teeth like the words are actually painful.

Jess makes him suffer through all of two songs before she slips a cassette into the player. Dean’s shoulders relax as the opening notes of “Free Bird” flow from the speakers.

“Oh thank god,” he says, turning the volume up louder, tapping out the beat against the steering wheel with one hand and Jess’ thigh with the other. Jess laughs, and Sam can’t help but grin at the sound.

“Shaddup,” Dean says, glancing at Sam in the rearview mirror, and Sam grins wider.

Things don't improve overnight - not that Sam expected them to. He and Dean are careful not to ask too many personal questions of each other. Their interactions are strained at the edges as they very slowly find their way back to solid ground.

Then, Sam has a nightmare about the Cage.

He’s standing in a corner, sulfuric clouds like an electric storm lighting things up from all sides. 

He tries to move, but his hands are bound down at his sides by chains, keeping him in place.

“Hello Samuel,” the Devil says with a grin.

“No,” Sam chokes out. He pulls at the chains. “No, you’re not real. This is a dream.”

Lucifer raises an eyebrow. “Is it?” He sinks his hand into Sam’s chest, ribs cleaved in two, twists his fingers into a fist, and Sam throws his head back and howls. He’s burning from the inside out, every inch of his skin on fire.

“I’m inside your brain, Sam. I can see every thought, every wish, every fantasy. What better way to make you suffer than to offer you the world you’ve always wanted and then rip it away.” He rips his hand out of Sam’s chest, and Sam screams.

“Why--” Sam chokes, barely able to speak through the blinding, all-encompassing pain. “Why--” _Why Dean, why Jess? Why this messy, imperfect life?_

“If it wasn’t a mess, you wouldn’t believe it was your life.” Sam drops his head. Lucifer tips his face towards him, forcing him to watch as Lucifer morphs into Dean, grin painted on his face. “You were locked down here with me, Sammy. The whole time.”

“No!” Sam gasps, shooting up in bed. Sam pants, staring down at his chest, patting a hand down his sternum. Beyond the twinge from his scar, he barely feels a thing.

A dream. It really was a dream.

Wasn’t it?

A hand comes down on his shoulder. Sam swings out a fist that Dean catches in his palm.

“Sam, Sam, hey,” Jess gets on her knees, keeping herself on his level. “Hey.”

Dean lets go of his hand and asks, “You okay?”

Sam thinks about lying, but he still feels the Devil’s fingers, so cold they burn. “No,” he says, voice hoarse, like he’s swallowed broken glass.

“Come here,” Jess whispers and tugs him into her embrace. Dean drags the blankets up over them and wraps around him from behind - both of them real and whole and alive.

For now.

Sam buries his face in Jess’ neck, breathes in the scent of her perfume. Dean squeezes a hand around his wrist.

“The Devil doesn’t burn hot,” Sam says, face still pressed against Jess’ skin; Dean tenses at his back. “He burns cold. Like frostbite.” He shivers, burrowing further down into the blankets.

“Is that what you have nightmares about? The Devil?”

Sam nods without lifting his head. “In my nightmares, this was all a dream. And I’ve been down there with him. The entire time.”

“Turn over,” Dean says, and Sam twists his head around with a start.

“What?”

“Do it.”

Sam rolls onto his stomach, following the order without question - the way he never did for his father but always, always did for Dean. His brother says _jump,_ and the only reason Sam asks _how high_ is because he’s a little shit and that’s his job - annoying the fuck out of his older brother.

Sam wriggles until he can turn onto his side, facing his brother. Dean slides the hem of his t-shirt halfway up his chest, up over the scar left behind from the poltergeist, until he can dig his thumb hard into the scar tissue. Sam bites back a sound of pain, hand coming up to grip Dean’s wrist.

“Dean!” Jess shouts, reaching over to push Dean away.

“Feel this?” Dean presses down harder until Sam’s chest burns with the ache. “That’s flesh and blood and _real_ pain. You’re not down there with him. You’re up here with us.”

“Promise?” Sam rasps out.

Dean lets go, and Sam drags several deep, aching breaths into his lungs. Dean strokes his thumb over Sam’s sternum. “Yeah, Sammy. I promise. I’ll even pinky swear.” 

Jess huffs a quiet but relieved laugh, carding a hand through Sam’s hair. “God, you are both so damaged.”

“Takes one to know one,” Dean says with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I thought you didn’t believe me,” Sam whispers, and Dean smooths his shirt back down so he has an excuse not to look Sam in the eye.

“I don’t. Not entirely. Don’t make the nightmares any less real.”

He says the words with such ferocity that Sam buries his face in his brother’s sternum and wonders what, exactly, this Dean dreams about.

\--

"So those cases."

Sam pauses as he exits the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist. Dean has been working himself up to this since they woke up this morning, wrapped around each other like a trio of limpets. Jess went out to grab breakfast, leaving him and Dean some time alone.

Like he said, his girlfriend is a goddess.

Sam rubs another towel against his hair. Dean follows a drop of water with his eyes as it drips down Sam's chest, his gaze a palpable thing. Dean clenches his hands into fists. Sam wants those hands all over him.

But not yet. Not now, and not like this.

Sam clears his throat and Dean's eyes snap back up to his face. "Which cases?" Sam asks, obscenely proud that his voice comes out steady.

"Cases?" Dean shakes himself and his gaze clears. "Right. Cases. The ones we took after you got out of the hospital. Did you... I mean, had you..." He gestures his hand in a circle, urging the words out of his own mouth. "Seen them before?"

"Yeah," Sam says, tugging his jeans and a pair of boxers from his bag.

"The same thing?"

Sam moves to the bathroom, reducing any temptation being naked would bring. "Similar. Not always exactly the same."

"Like that case in Springfield."

Sam sighs, guilt gnawing at his insides as he tugs his jeans up his legs before exiting the bathroom and walking back to his bag. "Yeah. Jess was right. It was a case."

"What was it?"

"The archangel Gabriel impersonating a Trickster." He looks up from his bag to catch Dean's reaction - tense shoulders, biting his lip against telling Sam he's full of shit.

"Does Jess know? That she was right?"

"Yes." Just one more thing he needs to atone for on a list that spans several miles and two separate universes.

Dean nods his head. "And when he saw you, he just... left."

Sam shrugs; he can't pretend to understand Gabriel's motivations any more than he could Castiel's. Dean was right - angels are dicks.

He swallows past the bone-crushing ache thinking about _his_ Dean will always bring. "You can't kill an archangel. But I imagine they enjoy getting stabbed through the heart with a wooden stake even less than an actual Trickster would."

His choice of phrasing triggers something in Dean, who stiffens, mouth working around the words he wants to say. Sam digs through his bag for his favorite t-shirt to give him time to sort through his misgivings, shoving other pieces of clothing aside with a frown.

Dean clears his throat. “That demon,” he says in fits and starts, “Alastair. Who is he?”

Sam starts tossing his clothes to the side, just to give himself something to do with his hands. “Practically the grand inquisitor downstairs. Picasso with a razor.”

He glances up when Dean doesn’t immediately reply. 

Dean frowns. “Did he-- I mean, was that--” He takes a deep breath. “In your head. What I saw. In your head.”

_They sliced and carved and tore at me until there was nothing left._

Sam shudders, hands twisting around a pair of socks. He forces his fingers to unclench. “Yes.”

“You killed him.” 

Sam tosses the socks to the side. “Yes.”

“With the--” Sam glances up as Dean gestures around his head with a hand, “demon thing?”

Sam swallows past guilt that tastes like Ruby’s blood in his mouth. “Yes.”

“Speaking of the demon thing.”

Sam freezes, hand still deep in his bag like a kid caught digging around in the cookie jar. He pulls his hand out. “What about it?”

“I saw--” He stops when Sam’s shoulders curl forward and clears his throat. “I mean-- that night in the warehouse--”

“Am I drinking demon blood?” Sam shoves his bag and his clothes to the foot of the bed and sits down, facing Dean. “That’s what you really want to know, isn’t it?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Don’t put words in my mouth.” 

Sam scoffs. He scratches at a tiny hole in the knee of his jeans. “I don’t think I needed the blood. I mean-- Ruby said it was like Dumbo’s feather.”

“She made you think her blood was the magic cure when it didn’t actually do shit.” Sam raises his head, startled. Dean’s face flushes pink. He rubs at the back of his neck. “What? It's a classic. Who do you think watched those movies with your dorky ass anyway?”

“At least Fantasia didn’t give me nightmares.”

“Hey, those dancing hippos were _terrifying,_ okay?”

Jess pauses on her way in the door. “Do I even want to know?”

Sam grins, taking the bag of food Jess holds out and placing it on the bed. “We were just talking about Dean’s delicate disposition.”

“Fuck off, asshole,” Dean says, shoving Sam so hard he falls to the floor, laughing. 

Jess sighs, slips out of her jacket, and sits in Dean’s lap, pinning him down to the bed.

“Sweetheart, if you wanted the D, all you had to do was ask.” Dean wiggles his eyebrows.

She slaps the side of his head, wrenching her neck around to look at Sam. “Seriously though, what are you talking about?”

“Dean was just asking if I was planning on going on a demon blood bender any time soon.”

She slaps him again. “Dean!”

“Will you quit hitting me, woman! That’s not what I said!”

“But you were thinking it,” Sam says.

Dean lets out a frustrated sound, holding up his hands with tense, curled fingers, like he wants to wring Sam’s neck. Jess takes both of his hands in hers, shaking her head.

“Look, I don’t--” Sam sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. Any pretense of teasing evaporates into thin air.

“How does it work, anyway?” Dean grunts. “The whole--” he gestures up and down in the air, hands flapping around, “--Jedi mind trick?”

“Azazel called it that,” Sam says softly, making Dean cringe. Sam’s brow furrows, trying to put into words what’s become as instinctive as breathing. Trying not to think about the fact that _his_ Dean never asked. Just locked him in a panic room and called him a monster.

Sam takes a shuddering breath. “I can see their faces. Their real ones. It's like a part of my brain just-- reaches inside to the demons underneath. Destroys them. The more powerful they are, the easier they are to see, but-- the harder they are to kill. The demon blood made that easier, but it was addictive. Like a drug.” He shakes his head. “Even when I stopped-- it was like trying to put the pin back in the grenade. Useless. Turns out I didn’t need the blood anyway. It was just a way for Ruby to keep me on a short leash. Make me do what she wanted me to do. Seeing her that day in the warehouse-- it was like my power reached out. Wove around her neck and reached deep down inside. I didn’t need the knife. I could have killed her all on my own. And I wouldn’t have been sorry. I’m still not sorry.”

The room goes silent. A car pulls out of the parking lot. Sam chances a glance at Jess, eyes huge and very blue in her pale face. 

“Let’s hope you don’t run into anyone else you know,” Dean says, breaking the tension. He pats Jess’ thigh. “Now let me up. I’m starving.”

They don’t look for any cases after that, choosing instead to find a place to stay and hunker down. They end up at a long-term hotel, taking turns making dinner or ordering in, Jess throwing popcorn at Dean when he insults her taste in movies, Sam and Dean kicking each other in the shins as they volley for space on the coffee table for their feet.

It’s disgustingly domestic.

Until they find themselves huddled around the table, Sam and Dean with their laptops, Jess flipping through some of the local papers, looking for a monster to kill.

“Think I got one.” 

Jess swallows around the rim of her beer, placing the bottle down on the table. “Let’s see it.”

Dean spins his laptop around. The article is from the Sturbridge Gazette.

“Janet Dutton, 35 years old, dies of unknown causes. Apparently, all of her teeth fell out and she bled to death.”

Jess wrinkles her nose. “That’s disgusting.”

“You said it, sister.”

“Witches,” Sam says, before Jess can comment back. “A coven. The woman who killed Janet-- she’s going to go after Janet’s husband next.”

“So you’ve seen this before,” Jess says, and Sam nods.

“Yes. And we need to be careful, because one of the witches is possessed by the demon holding their contracts.”

“Burn, witch, burn,” Dean says, and Jess rolls her eyes.

They don’t get to town soon enough to save Amanda, but they manage to keep Paul Dutton alive, burning the hex bag Sam finds in his glove compartment.

“What the hell was that?” Paul gasps, hand around his throat. “Who are you guys?”

“We’re the cavalry,” Dean says, leaning into Paul’s space. Paul scurries back against the car. “And we just saved your ass.”

“Dean,” Jess sighs, yanking him away from Paul. “It’s like you were raised in a barn.”

“A car technically, but you’re close.”

Jess ignores him. She gives Paul a light smile that puts him at ease, shoulders dropping down from around his ears. “Someone has it out for you. She killed your wife. Amanda?”

Paul’s eyes dart from side to side. “I don’t know what you’re--”

“Save it, Hefner. We know all about your affair,” Dean says; Jess kicks him in the ankle.

“It was a mistake,” Paul says like the words are being drawn out under protest. “She was unbalanced, blackmailing me. I put an end to it a week ago.”

“Apparently, she missed the memo,” Dean says, and to Sam’s surprise, Paul breathes a laugh.

“You see this?” Jess holds up the burned hex bag. “Go home. Check every inch of your house for more, and burn any you find.”

“Right,” Paul says slowly, taking the hex bag from Jess’ hand.

“Wait.” Sam stops Paul before he gets in his car. “This may seem like a weird question but-- when’s Book Club?”

“What?” Paul slams his door shut, advancing on Sam. “My wife is dead, I almost die and you’re asking me about some-- some local women’s gathering--”

Dean holds his hand out against Paul’s chest, halting him in his tracks.

“It’s relevant,” Sam says, unaffected by Paul's ire, “really.”

Paul exhales harsh and loud. “Tuesdays. Husbands usually come down to my place to watch whatever game happens to be on. After Janet-- I just wasn’t feeling up to the company.”

Sam nods, and Dean releases his hold. “Thank you.”

Paul gets in his car before any further questions can be asked, backing out and speeding away.

“Tuesday, huh?” Dean says as Paul’s headlights disappear around a corner.

Jess’ boots click against the pavement as she approaches Dean’s side, smile bright and sharp. “Today’s Tuesday.”

“Sammy,” Dean says, smile mirroring the one on Jess’ face, “You wouldn’t happen to know who’s hosting Book Club, would you?”

\--

Sam offer directions to Renee’s house, as detailed as he can remember, and Dean parks the Impala down the street.

“Look, be careful, okay?” Sam says as they walk onto the porch. There’s no Ruby to save their asses should Tammi decide to cast another hex.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says and kicks the door in. The women sitting around the coffee table jump to their feet with a terrified screams.

“Who the hell are you?” Tammi asks, putting herself between them and the rest of the coven. What are you--”

“Christo,” Jess spits out, and Tammi’s eyes go black as she reels back. She flicks her hand, sending Sam, Dean, and Jess slamming into the wall.

Elizabeth’s eyes go wide, mouth dropping open. “Tammi, what’s wrong with your eyes?”

 _Mrs. Renee Van Allen_ appears less than thrilled. “Tammi, what are you doing?”

“Renee,” Tammi says, hand still held aloft, “shut your painted hole.”

“What? I-- I will-- You can't--” Renee splutters, cheeks reddening in her righteous anger. “Not in my house, Tammi Fenton.”

Sam shouts, “No!” but it's too late; Tammi flicks her wrist and snaps her neck. Renee's limp body crumbles to the floor. Elizabeth screams.

Tammi pets the back of her free hand down Elizabeth’s face. “Shhhh, Lizzie.”

“Who are you?” Elizabeth whispers.

“Remember all those deep, dark forces you were praying to for help? Just who did you think you were praying to?”

Elizabeth shakes her head, frantic. “No-- we didn’t--”

“Oh, you knew. You _all_ knew. All I had to do was bring a single book to book club and you were eating out of the palm of my hand. And now your ever-loving souls are mine. All for the low, low price of a couple of garden contests and a lower mortgage rate.”

“Leave her alone,” Sam growls when Elizabeth backs up against the fireplace, tears streaming down her face.

Tammi spins, macabre grin splitting across her face.

“Sammy Winchester, wow. Right here in our little town.” She drags a finger down his cheek, laughing when he turns away. “Lilith sends her regrets. She couldn't make it.”

All of the air in his lungs turns to ice, sharp edges pressing against his insides so every breath feels like frostbite. Like Lucifer. Like the Cage.

“No,” Sam chokes out. “Lilith-- she’s still in the Pit.”

“You opened the door, Sam,” Tammi says, while Elizabeth cowers behind her back. “You were so focused on saving Daddy, you didn’t think about all the other demons who would walk right out alongside him.”

“No,” Sam says, shaking his head, heart a wild beast thundering in his chest. “That’s not possible.”

“Oh Sammy.” Tammi tsks, running her finger down Sam’s chest, circling her nail over his heart. “Did you really think we didn’t have a plan B?”

“You’re lying.”

“I think you know I’m not.” She holds up both hands, surveying the room like a queen surveying her throne. “Questions? Comments?”

“Sam, now would be a good time to do that thing,” Dean says, groaning when Tammi presses him further against the wall so the drywall starts to crack.

“You told me not to do the thing.” Sam already lied to his brother about it once, and look where that got him. He refuses to do it again.

 _“Just do it!”_ Dean and Jess shout together.

Sam closes his eyes, reaching for his powers; they flow into his hands easier than they ever have before, an extension of himself rather than an alien force. 

He breaks free from the phantom hold on his body and severs the connection between Dean, Jess, and Tammi. The demon narrows her eyes, throwing her power around with all the subtlety of an anvil.

Sam bats it away like nothing but air. He squeezes his fingers into a fist, and Tammi grips at her throat, eyes bulging.

“Go to hell,” Sam hisses, “And stay there.”

Tammi throws her head back, black smoke streaming out of her mouth and disappearing into the floor.

Sam rushes forwards as Tammi’s body falls, easing her down. He presses his fingers to the pulse point in her neck, finding a slow, thready pulse.

Elizabeth pushes away from the wall, arms wrapped around herself. “Is she--”

“She’ll survive,” Sam says; he hopes.

They stay until the police arrive; Elizabeth weaves a story about the three of them coming to her rescue, hearing her screams as they walked past the house. The police buy her earnest tale hook, line, and sinker. 

The officers step back, closing their notepads and climbing over the crime-scene tape across the front doorway.

Elizabeth rubs her arms for warmth. “What happens now?”

“Take that book and burn it,” Sam says; Elizabeth bites her lip, tears welling in her eyes. 

“I just feel so stupid.”

“Don’t. You’re not the first person to be fooled by a demon.” He would know.

“Lizzie,” Elizabeth’s husband says, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She offers Sam one final, heartbreaking smile before allowing her husband to usher her away.

Sam shoves his hands in his pockets, walks back to the Impala, and collapses against the doors, legs shaking so hard, they almost drop him to the ground. The commotion up the street fades to background noise.

Lilith made it out of the Pit. She’s out.

Oh god.

“No, no, no. Sam.” Dean grips Sam’s shoulders tightly. “I know what you’re thinkin’, Sam, and it’s bullshit, okay?”

“You don’t know that,” Sam chokes out.

“Yes, I do. Demons lie like they breathe. That Tammi chick knew exactly what buttons to press to get under your skin.”

“She never said Lilith escaped,” Jess adds, “she just wanted to make you think she did. She manipulated you, Sam. She just didn’t count on it backfiring.”

Sam lets out a harsh laugh, dragging his hair out of his face. “Yeah, well, I guess I’m good at that-- letting demons manipulate me.”

Jess pushes Dean out of the way so she can grip his biceps, fingers squeezing tight.

“You listen to me, Sam Winchester. You are _not_ that Sam anymore.” She cups his face in both hands, shakes him until he meets her gaze, fierce, wild, and unrelenting. “This isn’t your world. Ruby is dead. Alastair is dead. You killed them both. I don’t know how you got here-- divine intervention, angels. Call it what you want.” She drags a hand through his hair. “You’re here. You’re with us. You’re different. Everything is different now.”

“And if Lilith does show up?” Sam asks, leaning into her hands like he’s starved for touch. “What then?”

“If this demon shows up, we’ll face her. Together.” Dean shakes Sam by the shoulders. Jess steps back. “You hear me, little brother?”

Sam yanks Dean forwards, crushing their mouths together; Dean holds him close with both hands cradling his face, shoving him back against the Impala with a knee between his legs. He tastes like coffee and candy - like _home._

“Well, it’s about fucking time,” Jess says, and Sam pulls away in time to see her grin.

\--

They travel almost a hundred miles outside of Massachusetts before Dean pulls over to a motel with a vacancy sign.

“Come on,” he says, waiting for Sam and Jess to follow him into the main office.

“One king,” Dean says, brandishing a credit card before the guy standing behind the desk can even get a word out.

The guy takes a look at Sam and Jess, raises his eyebrow with a lascivious smile, then runs the card.

Dean barely gets the door to their room open before Sam shoves Dean up against the wall, shoves his mouth up against Dean’s, frantically tugging his jacket off of his shoulders.

“Stupid-- freakin’-- leather,” Sam gasps out in between kisses. 

“Insult the jacket again and you’ll be sleeping on the floor.”

Dean slides the jacket off, tossing it to the table next to the window. Sam starts in on the buttons on his shirt with shaking fingers.

Dean grips at Sam’s wrists. “Easy. Slow down, cowboy. Not goin’ anywhere.”

“You were never just a distraction,” Sam says, defenseless and even more naked than if he wasn’t wearing any of his clothes. "And I will _always_ need you." Dean surges forward, hands cupping the join of Sam's neck and shoulder, thumbs brushing against his collarbones. Sam grips the amulet around his neck, letting the points and rough edges press into his palm.

Dean barely leaves an inch between them as he pulls away enough to ask Jess, “You plannin’ on joinin’ in sometime today, princess?”

Jess shakes her head, dragging her shirt off. “I want to watch.”

Dean spins around. “What?”

Jess shrugs. “I want to watch.” She unhooks her bra with little fanfare. “You owe me. I’m collecting.”

“Doesn’t seem like much of a payback,” Dean grumbles.

Jess slips her jeans and her underwear down her legs, kicking them to the side, shameless of the scars on her body. “You mean you don’t like watching Sam and me together?”

Dean shudders. Jess smirks.

“You rendered him speechless,” Sam says, biting back a smile. “I think you should get some sort of prize. Gold star?”

“I was thinking a pony.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Dean snarks, shoving his own jeans off of his hips. He yanks his shirts over his head, sitting down on the edge of the bed. His gaze feels like a living, breathing entity as he watches Sam finish stripping his clothes off.

The minute Sam finishes with his jeans, Dean mutters, “You’re too slow,” and tugs Sam down until he’s half-straddling his brother’s lap. One knee braces on the bed beside Dean to break his fall. Fireworks explode behind his eyes when their lips press together, and he lets Dean roll Sam onto his back, yanking off his boxers and tossing them to the side.

As far back as Sam can remember, Dean has never been anything but sure of himself, confidence oozing out of his pores and a smile that would win the hearts of any man, woman, or child.

Dean looks nothing like that now, soft and vulnerable as he presses Sam into the bed.

Sam holds out his hand. “Jess, come here.”

Jess takes his hand and allows him to pull her down onto the bed at his side.

Dean kisses Sam, slow at first, waiting for Sam to react. He cups Dean’s face and opens his mouth, tongue flicking out to lick at Dean's lips. 

Dean groans, hands curling in Sam’s hair, all of his earlier unsurety melting away. Dean kisses Sam with the same passion he shows nothing else, like Sam is precious, the only thing that matters.

That is, until Jess clears her throat. Dean glances up, raising an eyebrow, some of that mischievousness returning.

“What? I’m just giving your boytoy the attention he deserves.” Dean winks; Sam smacks at his hip, but he’s grinning. 

“Jealous?” Dean purrs, laughing when Jess all but hauls him over, rolling him onto his back next to Sam. He’s still laughing when Jess kisses him, rolling her hips and dragging her arms around his shoulders. Watching them kiss after the past few months isn’t the battle Sam was expecting. It’s a give and take, allowing Jess to take the lead before flipping them over on the bed, sitting up at Jess’ urging.

“Go take care of our boy,” Jess says, and heat swoops down Sam’s spine, a different kind of fire, burning him from the inside out.

Dean doesn’t say anything as he lays between Sam’s legs. He lets his hands do the talking as he opens Sam up, lips pressed against Sam’s thigh, his hip, any bit of skin he can reach without moving. Sam’s legs shake when he scissors his fingers, crooking them so white bursts behind Sam's eyes.

Sam pants as Dean pulls back and slicks up his cock. Jess presses her mouth against Sam’s while Dean presses him into the mattress, presses inside.

Sam rips away from Jess with a gasp, tossing his head back. He reaches out, hands floundering in the sheets, looking for an anchor.

Two hands find his in the dark.

“We gotcha, Sammy,” Dean says, and he starts to move, one hand gripping tight to Sam’s hip. 

Sam can’t bring himself to reply, to do anything other than squeeze their hands, eyes rolling back in his head.

Jess gasps, and Sam forces his eyes open, watching the fingers of her free hand working between her legs. She tosses her head back, mouth open, and she’s beautiful, Jesus fucking _Christ,_ she’s beautiful. Sam’s always thought so, but like this, raw and blown open, Sam doesn’t think he’s seen anything more beautiful in his life.

Sam twists his neck to kiss her knee, the closest part of her body he can reach. Jess draws him forwards so she can kiss his mouth.

Dean grips Sam’s cock with sure fingers, and Sam rips his face away and cries out, coming all over Dean’s fist.

“Fuck, Sam,” Dean says, looking down at him in awe.

“Yeah,” Sam mutters, closing his eyes and trying to catch his breath. “Do that.”

Dean’s hips jolt, and he laughs as he comes. He collapses down on top of Sam, mouth pressed to his shoulder.

“You little shit,” Dean says, breathless, fondness seeping out of his pores. He looks over at Jess, who’s staring at the two of them without moving, soft smile plastered across her face. 

He arches an eyebrow. “Need some help?” 

Jess arches one right back. “If you want.”

Dean prowls across the bed as Jess lowers her leg closest to Sam. Dean drops a kiss to her sternum, thumb circling one of her nipples. Her hips jerk. “Oh, I want,” he says, lowering himself onto his belly. He keeps eye contact as he drops his mouth between her legs, and Jess lets out a whimper, hand gripping tight to Dean’s hair.

Sam rolls onto his belly and drags himself up on shaking arms, dropping hot, open-mouthed kisses to her neck. He slides a hand down her chest, twists her nipple, sucking a mark into her shoulder. She comes, keening, hips rolling against Dean’s mouth.

She shoves Dean’s face away, and he leans his chin on her thigh, licking his lips, eyes bright. Jess glances at Sam and the twin smirk across his face.

“Don’t look so proud of yourselves,” she says, chest heaving. Dean’s smirk grows.

She kisses Sam’s shoulder and yanks Dean up until she can kiss his laughing mouth. 

“Jackass,” she mutters, tugging at the hair at the nape of Dean’s neck. Dean chuckles, rolling onto his side and tossing a box of tissues onto the bed.

They don’t do more than a perfunctory cleanup, tugging up the comforter so no one’s laying in the wet spot before collapsing back into bed, Jess at Sam's front, Dean at Sam's back.

When Jess is asleep, breath warm against his chest, Dean rubs his thumb over Sam's lower back, along the line of his spine, where the scar from Jake's knife used to be.

"You died," Dean says, voice raw and aching against the nape of Sam's neck, "Didn't you?"

Sam reaches back to clasp Dean's hand in his, bringing it around his waist.

"Not this time," Sam whispers, gripping tight.

\--

On May 2, 2008, Dean and Jess celebrate Sam's birthday.

Sam celebrates Dean never going to hell. 

He breaks down in tears that night. Jess isn't sure she understands, but she holds him close, doesn’t let him go.

Dean whispers, “I know,” and “It’ll be okay,” and “ _I’m_ here,” against his ear, because he understands, the loss of the brother he will never see again - of course he does.

They fall asleep in a tangle of limbs on top of the covers on the bed. Sam wakes to a sound like the flutter of wings. The lights outside of his window flicker out.

He extricates himself from Dean and Jess, who barely move beyond rolling into one another. Dean mumbles, face buried in Jess’ hair.

Sam presses a kiss to each of their foreheads, tugs on his shoes, and walks out the door.

Where Castiel is waiting for him next to the Impala.

“Hello Sam,” he says, immovable as ever, and somehow, Sam knows this is his Castiel, the one from his world. 

“Castiel.” Sam walks across the parking lot, steps slow and reluctant; waiting for the ax to fall.

“Don’t be afraid,” Castiel murmurs, sensing his hesitation. “I am not going to hurt you. I am the one who brought you here.”

“I know,” Sam says, before he can think better of it.

Castiel frowns, the barest movement of lips. “How?” 

“Gabriel.”

Castiel nods, as if this explains everything. "I heard your prayers. I am sorry I could not answer them."

"Why?" Sam asks, voice breaking, raw and pained and angry. He's thinking about another day, another time, The Boy With The Demon Blood asking for guidance, and the angel only answering the prayers of The Righteous Man.

"It would not have been wise." He exhales, heavy and weary, shoulders rustling so Sam can almost imagine the ruffling of feathers. "I should not even be here now."

"Breaking the rules," Sam says, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "How very unlike you."

"I am not breaking them, merely... bending them." His mouth twitches into what Sam thinks is supposed to be a smirk. "I did learn a thing or two from my time with you and your brother."

“He didn’t tell me how,” Sam blurts out. "Gabriel. He didn't tell me how you saved me." He holds his breath; waiting.

“When you jumped into the Cage, I followed you,” Castiel says, voice quiet and full of gravel. “I couldn’t bring you back to your world, not without insurmountable consequence. I was able to find a different one. A better one. This world’s Sam died that night.”

Sam swallows, heart battering against his ribcage as he asks one single question: "Why?"

Cas tilts his head to the side, and the image is as amusing as when Gabriel made the same gesture. "Are you not happy here, Sam?"

"Yes, but… is Dean..." Sam fists his hands at his sides. "Is he all right?"

"I confessed that you were not in Hell, but I told him you were somewhere he could not follow. He assumes I spoke of Heaven."

The idea of his brother thinking so low of himself that he doesn’t deserve to go to Heaven makes Sam’s chest feel too tight, legs shaking so hard, he grips hard at the hood of the Impala so they don’t give out.

“That dumbass,” he says, harsh like broken glass in his throat. He swallows. "Is he... happy?"

A real smirk breaks across Cas’ face, small but there. "Is Dean ever happy?"

"Did you just make a joke?"

“I have been known to do so from time to time. They are generally funnier in Enochian.” Sam huffs a laugh and shakes his head, startled when Castiel places his hand on Sam’s shoulder. "Dean will live a long life, as happy as Dean ever could be. Though it will pain him greatly, he will learn to live without you, Sam."

Something inside of Sam unwinds, something he never realized was coiled quite so tightly.

“I must go back," Castiel says, dropping his hand. "I do not belong here. Perhaps we will meet again someday.”

Sam thinks of the circumstances under which they met in the first place, the apocalypse being nigh. “No offense, Cas, but I really hope not.”

Sam holds out his hand. Castiel doesn’t hesitate to meet him this time.

“Thank you,” Sam says, shaking his hand. “For saving me.”

“I did not save you, Sam Winchester. You saved yourself.”

Sam looks down as the angel closes his other hand over both of theirs. Then, Castiel is gone in a flutter of wings.

\--

After, Sam sits outside and quietly watches the sunrise. He walks down to the closest diner, buys three coffees, two short stacks, and an omelette with the works, and brings the food back to Jess and Dean, awake and still in bed at the motel.

“Aw, breakfast in bed?” Dean gives him a sickeningly sweet smile. “Honey, you shouldn’t have.”

Sam rolls his eyes, shutting the door with his hip. “Just for that, I’m eating your bacon, you jerk.”

“Bitch, I will cut you.”

Jess pouts, taking the coffee and Styrofoam container Sam offers. “When do I get a nickname?”

“Already have one, princess.”

“Jackass,” Jess says, without missing a beat. Sam laughs so hard, he chokes.

They don’t linger. After breakfast and _separate_ showers - much to Dean’s dismay - they pack their bags and head out to the car.

“Where to now, boys?” Jess asks, swinging herself into the back seat.

Sam looks at Dean as he drops into the driver’s seat, a warm smile splitting across his face.

“Just drive,” Sam says, and Dean grins, revving the Impala’s engine like a melody as they drive off into the sun.

 

 

_were we the belly of the beast or the sword that fell?_  
_oh, we’ll never tell._  


Fin.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, sweet baby Jesus on a pogo stick.
> 
> I started this fic years ago. It languished in the purgatory that is my "works in progress" folder until I saw sign-ups for Wincest Big Bang. All of a sudden, the words started pouring out. This is the fic I am most proud of to date, and absolutely my favorite fic I've ever written (for those of you who have been playing along since Ye Livejournal Days of Old - yes, something has finally surpassed "My Own Destroyer.") I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it.
> 
> Special thank you to riverchic1998 and thatworldinverted, for not just being outstanding betas and all-around amazing people, but for putting up with my last minute flailing and general freakouts, especially over the past couple of weeks.
> 
> Redbells has been with me and this fic since its inception and is the only reason this got off of the ground in the first place. Thank you for the word wars, the angst wars, and just being your amazing, lovely self <3
> 
> Thank you to huntress79 for working with me and for making the art, and to the wincestbb mods for being fantastic.
> 
> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed - even something as small as "I enjoyed this" means the world.
> 
> Most of all, thank you to those of you who are reading. I appreciate every view, kudos, and comment, more than you will ever know.


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